


build a life in your shape

by portraitofemmy



Series: on honey and jam [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alpha Eliot Waugh, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fisting, Anal Sex, Butt Plugs, Claiming Bites, Come play, Complex Imaginings of Queerness, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gentle Dom Eliot Waugh, Impregnation Kink, Knotting, Light Spanking, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of vaginal sex, Mosaic Timeline (The Magicians: A Life in the Day), Omega Quentin Coldwater, Polyamory Negotiations, Possessive Behavior, Post-Season/Series 04, Pre-Canon, Quentin Coldwater Lives, Scent Marking, Self-Lubrication, Trope Treated Seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:16:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24258766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: He’d never really gotten used to the impulse to den. He’s never really gotten used to having a designation at all, but he’s pretty sure he’s not going into heat. It doesn’t feel like heat. It just feels like the world is too much and he just—— he just wants everything to be quiet for a little while.5 times Quentin makes a nest + 1 time Eliot makes it for him
Relationships: Arielle/Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: on honey and jam [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1942912
Comments: 62
Kudos: 335





	build a life in your shape

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning: This fic contains the vaguest of vague threats of dubcon, re: the Monster and Quentin. In my opinion, nothing worse than in canon, but if you’re triggered by it, you may want to skip section 4 “The Monster” and go on to 5.
> 
> I said like two months ago that we need more A/B/O in The Magicians fandom, and well. I aim to be the change I want to see in the world. This was supposed to be a short series of vignettes, and then the world building got away from me, and now it’s a long series of vignettes! What can I say, I love this dumb trope. I hope you like it too, honestly, let’s all get on this bandwagon. 
> 
> Many, many thanks to [propinquitous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous) for the huge lift that is beta reading and cheerleading and emotionally supporting a needy writer during a global crisis. Also thanks to [PanBoleyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PanBoleyn/pseuds/PanBoleyn) for chatting about world building and general trope-y stuff as I was constructing this.

#### 1— Undergrad

Quentin figured out about a month into his first semester living on campus that you could boost up the bedframe on the double-long dorm bed to the top height and make a den of sorts for yourself. Dragging the shitty thin mattress off it is easy, and it fits under the bed frame, and he’s got— well he’s got _more than enough_ sheets because his mom’s idea of contributing to getting Quentin through college had apparently been buying him enough sheets that he could change them every month and not have to do laundry until Christmas. 

So he’d hung some sheets up to create a barrier and piled all his bedding and pillows and extra blankets on the mattress under the frame. It was kind of like a blanket fort, almost, and if he thought of it that way, it didn’t feel so weird to be— to be _denning_ , god, just the thought of it made his cheeks burn in embarrassment. He’d had, god, maybe three full heats in his life, a handful more truncated and dulled by the medication which had left him numb enough that least he wasn’t going to fucking _kill himself_ , and— that’s what you do, right, for omegas who were too emotional— 

At least, that’s what— The most _recent_ therapist had been pretty horrified by that, so— Quentin’s not sure anymore, but— anyway, three heats, maybe, the first when he presented, 15 and horrified at the _lecture from his father,_ solid beta who’d been married to an alpha, with no idea what his son was going through or how to help him. And then two more, recently, senior year of high school, with the therapist who’d explained, gently, ‘ _I don’t think this dosage is working for you, Quentin, I think it’s too strong, are you interested in trying to scale it back?’_

He’d never really gotten used to the impulse to den. He’s never really gotten used to having a designation at _all_ , but he’s pretty sure he’s not going into heat. It doesn’t feel like heat. It just feels like the world is too much and he just—

— he just wants everything to be _quiet_ for a little while. 

He doesn’t _mean_ to skip class, or worry his roommate, or get _Julia_ involved, god, of course not. He never means to let everything go to shit, but it always does, he always does this, always leaves the people he— makes everyone _worry_ about him, because he’s— “ _over dramatic_ ” his mother had said and _“attention seeking”_ her wife had said and _“really weird_ ” Jenny DeLaney had said, giving him that cold glare of disinterest and he’d— _gotten wetter—_

“Hey, I’m sorry for bothering you,” Peter says, somewhere out in the room, after the click of the door opening. “I just didn’t know what else to do.”

Peter was— _fine_ , if you liked that kind of person. Meaning, sweet, funny omegas who were ambitious and intelligent and good at mechanical engineering and played intramural soccer and probably _weren’t_ a disappointment to their mother— Sure, Peter was fine. In terms of ‘random roommate placement’ lottery, there was no question who was getting the worse end of the deal, here, and it wasn’t Quentin.

“It’s no bother.” Julia’s voice is— so _familiar_ , and her _scent_ is so familiar, beta-steady and bright, like freshly mown grass, like matcha tea, like bright _alive_ things. Julia’s always been so bright and alive. “I’m glad you called.”

“He’s been under there for like three day, I didn’t— Maybe I should get the RA?” 

“Nah, it’s okay, I got this,” Julia says, with a truly astounding amount of surety for someone who is _also_ 18 years old. “Do you think you could give us some space?”

“Yeah, I’ve got practice anyway. Um. Good luck?”

Then Peter’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him, and it’s just Quentin tucked into the far corner of the little nest and Julia’s grass-green smell. She smells— _worried_ , a little, but mostly _purposeful_ , which is a nice change from Peter’s sharply mounting anxiety. It takes her a moment to cross the room, and then there's a sharp rap of knuckles on the bed frame, secret knock which only the Fillorian Guards in the heads of two suburban kids would recognize. 

“What?” he calls out, and his voice croaks, which is, wow, a pretty good indicator of how long it’s been since he like, _spoke_ to another human. 

“I’m supposed to, like, ask before I come in, right?” Julia teases, a playful smile on her face when she sticks it through the sheets.

“When has that ever stopped you?” he points out, and she giggles, tumbling headfirst into his nest and it—

It still makes his heart race, doesn’t it, the way Julia just acts like she _belongs_ everywhere he is. Like she’s got— got _claim_ over him, as she kicks off her shoes and snuggles into his den, and he— he _should_ make her ask. He _shouldn’t_ let her act like what’s his is hers except—

— except, oh god, he wants what’s his to be hers so badly it makes his head spin. 

“Cool little blanket fort you’ve got going on here, Q,” Julia says once she’s settled, hands crossed over her stomach and ankles crossed resting on top of his feet, where he’s tucked up in the corner with his knees to his chest. “Reminds me of the ones we used to make in the attic at my parent’s house.”

“It’s a den,” he tells her, and it’s—

It’s weird, right? Because he’s spent the last three days saying ‘ _blanket fort_ ’ to himself over and over and over but— It feels important, all of a sudden, to name it for what it is. Call it what it is. If she’s going to treat it like she _belongs_ here, then at least she can— she can acknowledge what it _means_ , right? What it means to have free reign here. Why can’t she just _admit—_

“Mmhm,” Julia cuts through his thoughts, nodding seriously. “I can see that. So why are you hiding in here anyway?”

Quentin looks away, down at his knees. There’s a hole starting in one of the knees of his jeans, and he picks at it a little. “I dunno.”

She lets the silence sit for a handful of seconds before poking him with her toe. “Hey, I have a great idea.”

“Is it stealing weed from your sister and getting high on the roof because that was _not a good idea_ , Jules.”

“No, this ones better,” she purrs, grinning, still poking him with her toe. He wants to— god, he wants to catch her ankle, hold it, so maybe his wrist brushes against her skin, and then maybe she’ll smell like him. Betas don’t scent mark in the same way alphas and omegas do, but, he _wants—_

“What’s your idea?” he asks, balling his hands into fists so he doesn’t touch her. 

“You,” She says, _poke_ — “should come live with me.”

“W-what?” He asks, stuttering, heart in this throat—

“C’mon, think about it. I’ve got that whole apartment to myself, it’s like _so big and boring_ and like— Everyone else has roommates, I want a roommate.” She pouts at him, still fucking _poking him_.

“Right, sorry you’re missing out on this quintessential college experience,” he says dryly, gesturing to the dorm room at large. 

“Come _oooon_ , I’ve got that like— office thing I’m never going to fucking use, we can put curtains up over the glass, it’ll just be like a normal bedroom,” — _poke_ — “every day’d be a sleepover,” — _poke—_ “and you’re there like half the time anyway,” — _poke—_ “Come on! Say yes!”

“If I say yes will you stop poking me?” He asks, _laughing_ , for the first time in like three days. 

“I will consider it.”

“God, yes, okay? Yes!” She’s giggling when she launches herself to hug him, and he just— hugs back, and tries not to be super obviously creepy about inhaling her scent.

Which is how Quentin ends up living in the office of Julia’s loft before the end of his first semester. He even manages to get his housing deposit back for the second half of the year, and it’s— it’s great, really, tons of students at Columbia live off campus, and living with Julia is wonderful, and he’s honestly, incandescently happy for like— a good _solid_ three months which is a personal record. 

James does start functionally living with them, eventually, but that’s— that’s _fine_. Quentin’s just not used to having an alpha around, but— he’ll adjust. It just means, you know, heats are weird, because he can’t always _predict them_ , he’s not good at tracking them, so sometimes it’s just like _whoops, Jules, you and your boyfriend need to crash at his frathouse this weekend while I get embarrassingly horny all over the place, nothing to worry about—_

It’s fine. Better than the dorms.

* * *

* * *

#### 2— Brakebills

For the first three days he knows him, Quentin thinks Eliot’s a beta.

Which is mostly based on dumb stereotypes, Quentin’s not too proud to admit that. But it’s also not like he’s, well, getting up close and personal enough to stick his nose in Eliot’s neck and _breathe him in_ , and— okay, maybe he’s thought about doing that, but Quentin’s never been ashamed to admit he’s attracted to betas, okay, anyone who thinks being an omega means you need a knot to be happy is _full of shit_. Quentin meets Eliot (who smells like fancy soap and cigarettes and the kind of cologne alphas don’t often wear because it covers their scent) and then immediately meets Margo (who _does_ smell like an alpha in the kind of way that makes Quentin feel a little hot but mostly just, like, intimidated as hell) and goes— right. Beta. Alphas who aren’t shouty about it are rare, and close, tight _alpha-alpha_ friendships are even rarer still, so— question answered.

Doesn’t make him want to stick his face in Eliot’s neck any less, but, well— there you are.

Then, well, in a very short succession, Quentin gets attacked at a lecture, nearly kicked out of school, and tucked into the curve of Eliot’s arm while being shepherded across campus and— there’s no way to miss it, that close. The _smell_ of him, deep and woody but sweet, like— like— _plums_ , like an orchard, a hard hit of alpha smell that nearly sends Q flat on his ass on the steps outside the PA hall. 

Or that could be the shock. From the attack. 

Either/or.

But— it’s fine. Quentin can be friends with alphas. Doesn’t matter, even if— even if—

Even if it makes Quentin’s stomach burn in a way he tries not to think about too much, watching Eliot go through a rotation of boys, betas and omegas and even ( _memorably_ ) another alpha. Never omegas in heat, and the other alpha had been— okay, Quentin doesn’t _know_ , he hasn’t _asked_ , it’s not his _business_ , but he’d been drawn to the foot of the staircase up to Eliot’s room by what smelledlike _Eliot_ and _rut_ , and the next time he’d seen him, Eliot’d looked— well. He’d looked— _well fucked_ , honestly, with another alpha leaving his room.

So— message received. Eliot wasn’t looking for _attachments._

Quentin, who was nothing but one big attachment waiting to happen, could keep his distance. 

He could. 

No matter _how_ much he wants Eliot, when he’s stressed and scared and hurt the day he finds out his dad is... sick. Eliot probably wouldn’t turn him away, might even welcome him, but that’s not— not what Quentin _wants_ , and he’s used to not getting what he wants. He knows how to take care of himself, mostly.

So he makes a nest. 

The closet in his dorm in the Physical Kids Cottage is deep enough, the way all the closets are deep enough, just in case a room happens to belong to an omega prone to denning. Not all of them are. Some nest only during heats, and some not even then, but it’s considered good form to make a space available in case someone wants the option, and all the better for Quentin. Nesting is soothing, even if you’re only making the nest for yourself.

Even if there’s no one to share it with. 

He doesn’t quite have enough blankets and pillows for this. He could— maybe— borrow some? From Alice, with her comfortable beta scent like the vanillin of old paper and the sharpness of molten glass. Or from Eliot, deeply resonant alpha spice of an orchard covered only just by his cologne—

But, no, not when— not when Quentin’s like this, half-shaken apart and vulnerable. No, he just grabs a book and curls up on the too-thin blanket, feeling— achy, lonely, scared, but safe at least. Closed in on three sides with the closet door mostly shut, at least he has the cool darkness and the quiet, curling up on his side with his knees to his chest. He tries not to think about someone petting his hair, or someone holding his hand. Not like he’s going to get it, so why think about it?

He’s so bogged down in his own spiral of misery, he doesn’t hear someone enter the room proper until there’s a knock on the closet door, and a gentle call of, “Q?”

It’s Eliot’s voice. Of course it is, god, of _course_ it is, Quentin must— be giving off distress pheromones like there’s no tomorrow, of course Eliot’s going to check on him. He opens his mouth to offer reassurance, tell Eliot he’s fine, that Eliot can— go back to whatever or whoever he’s doing tonight, except— what comes out are just— _whimpers_. Stupid little omega sounds of misery, god, Quentin’s so _embarrassed_ about it, but he’s so— it’s so hard to remember, what he was going to say, with Eliot’s burned-plum scent leaking under the door.

There’s a thunk, like Eliot’s knees hitting the floor, and the door to the closet/den shifts. Not— god, not opening, not when an _alpha_ entering a den without explicitly invitation is the worst kind of violation, but— like he’s leaning against the frame, maybe. “Hey, Q,” Eliot murmurs, through the door, his deep voice resonant and soothing, all alpha rumble in the way he never, ever is. “What do you need? Can I get you anything? Water, or food, or— I can just stay out here, make sure everyone leaves you alone.”

Swallowing down his dumb little whimpers, Quentin— shifts, a little, in his sub-par nest. “Water, maybe,” he replies, voice cracking a little, and then— because he can’t fucking stop himself— “Maybe a blanket?”

Which is— god, _so_ beyond what he should ask for, really, from anyone other than another omega. But the only other omega he knows here is _Penny_ and he’s sure as fuck not asking _him_ for nesting supplies. 

Eliot doesn’t seem bothered, though, his scent _changing_ somehow. Quentin doesn’t know him well enough to be able to read all his mood in his scent yet, but— it doesn’t taste bitter or angry, just... darker somehow. “Okay, I can do that,” Eliot agrees, deep pleasant rumble of his voice that makes Quentin want to _roll around_ , god, he’s such a dumb mess of hormones right now, “I’ll be right back.”

Quentin has just long enough to scold himself into _behaving_ , Eliot’s just being _kind_ , he’s just being a good friend, before there’s movement in the room again. A gentle knock on the door, and Eliot asking “Do you— should I just leave this stuff out here, or—?”

Taking a deep breath, Quentin crawls over to push open the door to the den. Eliot’s crouching next to it, a look of tender surprise on his face, holding— _armfuls of shit_ , god, _Eliot_. At least four water bottles, a couple oranges, two bags of the pretzels Quentin likes, granola bars, the scratchy knitted blanket from the couch downstairs, a soft microfleece blanket that could only belong to Eliot and what looks like a pillow _from Eliot’s bed_. 

“I’m not denning down for the winter,” Quentin says, incredulous, then— _hears himself_ , god, ungrateful little shit, when Eliot’s gone to all this trouble.

But Eliot just grins, pleased as ever with Quentin’s sass. “Well, how should I know?” he asks, shifting a little so one of the oranges tumbles out of his arms, thunking to the floor and rolling away. He watches it mournfully, like a martyr experiencing a great betrayal, and Quentin— _giggles_. Eliot’s eyes flick back to him, pleased and— _hopeful_ , maybe? Then he dumps his armfuls of shit unceremoniously into Quentin’s den, _like a dick_. “Besides, if this was a long term arrangement, I’d have brought you booze.”

“Thoughtful,” Quentin agrees, turning away so he doesn’t just _stare directly at Eliot’s ass_ while he goes to retrieve the orange. No, instead he focuses on rebuilding his nest, with the scratchy knitted blanket on the bottom and his comforter weaved in with Eliot’s throw to make everything stable, the extra pillow meaning he can add a fourth side to the nest. He stashes the food and water in the back corner where they’ll be out of the way, settling down on his stomach with his head towards the door, as Eliot drops down to sit, legs folded, at the mouth of Quentin’s den.

“So why are we nesting?” Eliot asks, gently, once Quentin's settled. And the— _we_ is clearly just supposed to be the royal ‘we’ except— except now Quentin has pillows and blankets that smell like Eliot in his den, and Eliot’s just— sitting in the doorway of the closet, seemingly content to guard the entrance to Quentin’s safe space, and it’s— it’s a lot. It’s hard to reconcile with the ‘no attachments wanted’ aura Eliot projects.

“Because everything is bad,” Quentin replies, reaching out, tentatively, to lay his arm wrist up near Eliot’s thigh. It’s a clear invitation, but he doesn’t have long enough to be embarrassed about it before Eliot’s reaching down, fingers curling around Quentin’s wrist, thumb rubbing gently against the scent gland there. And it’s not— _inherently_ sexual, like touching the glands at the throat would be, but it’s intimate. It’s the most intimate touch Quentin’s had in a long, long time. He sighs, a little, a pleased little omega hum that makes something deep and warm flicker across Eliot’s face.

“Can’t fault you there,” Eliot agrees, nose flaring a little. Quentin wonders, abscently, what he smells like, with Eliot gently working the scent gland at his wrist. What’s Eliot reading from him right now? Can he tell how much calmer Quentin feels, just to have him here?

Nervous, excitement prickling in his belly, Quentin asks, “Do you want to come in?”

For a second, Quentin thinks he’s going to say yes. Surprise and elation flicker across Eliot’s face, and then they’re gone, hidden behind a mask of sardonic politeness. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Q,” Eliot says lightly, giving Quentin’s wrist a gentle squeeze and then pulling away. “You’re upset. I don’t want to take advantage of that.”

“I didn’t ask you to fuck me,” Quentin grumbles, pulling his arm back to his chest to curl around it. And it’s— it’s half a lie, the both know it is, because you don’t— you don’t invite an alpha into your nest when you’re denning unless you’re offering to _keep them there_ , especially not an alpha who just brought you food and water and _extra padding for your nest_ , Jesus. What the fuck was that, if not— “It’s fine, nevermind.”

“Q,” Eliot starts, but Quentin shakes his head, and Eliot’s jaw snaps shut, immediately. 

“It’s fine, I’m fine, you don’t have to stay.”

“I want to,” Eliot says, gently, but all of that alpha tone is gone from his voice. He’s just Eliot again. “Maybe just— out here, okay?”

They don’t talk about it again, the fact that Eliot stays with him through the night, guarding the outside of Quentin’s den so he can feel safe. When he goes into heat at Brakebills south, Alice is there, with her bookish beta scent and her solid fist as good as a knot for anything that actually matters. Alphas and betas of any gender combination have always worked for Quentin, and Alice is there, and she wants him, and maybe there’s no nest for them to share in the chilly arctic, but— Alice seems happy to be what he needs her to be. 

She tells him, haltingly, later, when they go to her parents house to try to save Penny, that she’d been told since she was a teenager that what she really needed was to be knotted— and not to take it personally if her mother was less than enthusiastic about her bringing home an omega. Quentin swears up and down that knots aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, which—

— makes it worse, doesn’t it, when she catches him naked in bed with two alphas. 

Because apparently Eliot’s happy to have him as long as there’s no _attachment_ involved. 

* * *

* * *

#### 3— The Mosaic 

He doesn’t _realize_ he’s nesting.

He’s just— cold, is the thing. He’s cold, and the hearth by the fire isn’t the _most_ comfortable place to settle down, so he pulls down the pillows from the sitting bench. And then well, pillows are only good for so much, if you’ve got blankets to settle between them, so there’s— the knitted blanket Ari’s mom made them, at the start of the winter, like just because Quentin and Eliot have been living here for 4 years didn’t mean that they would be able to keep _her_ daughter from freezing. And then once that’s down, well, the knitting was squashy and comfortable, but it was also _itchy_ , and well, there’s the quilt in the bedroom. So he goes to get it, and gets distracted by— there’s Arielle’s scarf hanging by the door, and the shirt Eliot had taken off last night, and those will just make everything smell right, won’t they?

He’s so busy fussing with the quilt that he doesn’t notice the door to the cottage swing open, or Eliot standing there watching him for a handful of moments. He does catch the motion the door swinging closed again out of the corner of his eye, and thinks he should— maybe go check, except he’s finally starting to get warm enough, and—

And the door’s swinging back open anyway, pushed open by Eliot’s booted foot because his arms are full of the blankets and pillows from the day bed outside. 

“ _Perfect_ ,” Quentin sighs, reaching out with grabby hands until Eliot starts passing down pillows. 

“I guess it is that time, isn’t it?” Eliot murmurs fondly, crouching down until he’s nearer to eye level with Quentin. 

“What time?” Quentin asks, distracted, rearranging the pillows so the chilly ones from outside are closer to the fire where they’ll warm up faster. Twisting around, back towards Eliot, he reaches out for the last blanket, huffing a little when Eliot tosses it at him instead, a grin on his face.

“Heat, Q,” Eliot says, patiently, and Quentin stops, freezing, looking over at his bondmate. “You’re going into heat.”

“Oh,” Quentin breathes, startled, because— _oh_. God, he’s bad at tracking this. He has been ever since he presented, and it’s not gotten _easier_ since they stopped living in a place that gave a shit about dates. “I am?”

“Yes,” Eliot confirms, eyes flicking down obviously to where— he’d set his _teeth_ , over a year ago, after the veneer of ‘ _just helping you through this, Q’_ had started to wear off, five or six heats and as many ruts into their time here at the mosaic. 

“Can you smell it on me?” Quentin asks, low, _teasing_ , just to watch Eliot’s eyes go— dark _,_ heavy with intent and interest, and it makes— Quentin _shiver_ , the spike of arousal in Eliot’s smell, his fond amusement mixing with desire. 

“Sure can,” Eliot agrees, dropping down onto his knees so he can place his hands on the edge of the nest and lean-in, nuzzling their faces together. And of course, Eliot has as much right to be in Quentin’s nests as Quentin does, but it’s still like— like Eliot’s hand sliding into his back pocket in public, Eliot rubbing the scent gland on his wrist under Quentin’s jaw thoughtlessly: shockingly, excitingly intimate, still, somehow, even after all this time. “You smell like you want it between your thighs.”

“That’s not just the heat, though. I always want it,” Quentin points out, and okay, yeah, usually he’s not quite this breathless, usually he can muster some more convincing sass— but Eliot’s still rubbing their faces together, not quite kissing him, still halfway into his nest... Quentin’s only human. “This is— um—”

“Hmm?” Eliot rumbles, still fucking— rubbing his mouth and nose and cheeks all over Quentin’s face, like he can’t _stop_ smearing their scent together, and fuck, maybe he _can’t_. They’ve never quite managed to sync up their cycles like bondmates usually do, but— that seems mostly due to the fact that Quentin’s hormone cycles are about as unpredictable as the rest of his body and brain chemistry and well— Eliot’s body is stubbornly, determinedly reliable, no matter what he’s put in it over the years. Every six months, on the dot, like clockwork.

It means they have about twice the amount of biologically mandated sex as they’d be having if they had fallen into each other’s patterns, but it’s fine, it works for them. What Eliot needs during ruts isn’t _actually_ what Quentin needs during heats, so— better for both of them, if Quentin’s with it enough to fuck Eliot through his ruts. Better if Eliot’s not so lost— in what Quentin would carefully dance around calling the _boatload of personal trauma_ that comes with Eliot’s own cycle— that he can’t take care of Quentin during heat.

It works. It works for them. But that doesn’t mean Eliot doesn’t get a sympathy rush, whenever Quentin starts heating up. And god, it’s— they’ve gone through one heat, since they bonded, and it was possibly the most intense heat of Quentin’s life, able to _feel_ the feedback loop of Eliot’s arousal, how fucking— _compatibile_ they are. So maybe Eliot can’t help smearing his scent all over Quentin’s face, not that Quentin’s complaining. Except—

Except the point he’d been originally trying to make was— “This’ll be the first one, with Ari.”

Eliot pauses, the pleased rumble that had been resonating in his chest falling silent, and Quentin almost flinches, a feeling of— _having displeased his alpha_ — but then Eliot’s reaching up, cupping Quentin’s cheek, so the scent gland in his wrist rubs against Quentin’s jaw, and he can just— turn his face into it, inhale. “Yeah. It’ll be different.”

“Doesn’t have to be,” Quentin mutters, even though _oh, god, Ari—_ “This is— I’m yours, always, but especially for this.”

“She’s your wife,” Eliot breathes, and there’s... a slight sour, sad note to his scent that— usually makes Quentin angry, because they’ve _talked_ about this, how many times do they have to _talk_ about it. But then it clears, replaced with just— fondness. “We’re a team, all three of us. Just because I don’t want to have sex with _her_ doesn’t mean I’m going to throw her out of our nest. I love her, in my own way, and I can share.” 

“I know you can,” Quentin promises, reaching up to pet his own thumb against the corner of Eliot’s mouth. “I’m just saying I understand if it feels different, for this.”

Eliot sighs, face serious. Then he nods his head towards the nest, a quick tip of his chin, “Can I come in?”

“Of course,” Quentin breathes, a little— _hurt?_ That Eliot feels like he needs to ask. But Eliot’s already pulling his boots off, then crawling his way into the nest. Quentin bites his lip, watching Eliot get settled, the needy instinctive part of him itching to ask _did I do it well? Do you like it?_

But Eliot’s never left him waiting for long, not when he really needs something. “You’re so good at this,” Eliot sighs, settling comfortably in against the pillows, opening his arms so Quentin can snuggle in against his chest. He’s still dressed, and that’s— tolerable, for now, but Quentin still just— wants to stick his face in Eliot’s chest hair and grind his nose against Eliot’s sternum until all he can smell is _alpha_ , is _Eliot_ —

“Yeah, you’re going into heat, alright,” Eliot says, low and fond, that rumbly growl resonating in his chest in a way that just says _alpha, alpha, alpha_. His hands rub up and down Quentin’s back over his shirt and it makes him feel like— _liquid_ , inside, and he’s not even— it hasn’t even started yet. “She’ll probably have to sleep on the daybed when I’m rutting, I don’t— I don’t know that I’ll be comfortable with that— not _yet_.”

“It’s okay,” Quentin breathes, petting— petting his own hands against Eliot’s ribs. “She’ll get that. And I’ll— I’ll be here. I'll make you a nest and give you everything you need, as much as I can.”

“I know you will,” Eliot says, fond, god, he _smells so good— smells like he loves me_. Quentin smiles, rubbing his lips against Eliot’s chest, his stupid shirt that’s doing no one any good at all. “But— I mean, if you want to like, look at it historically, _biologically_ , betas do serve a purpose during heats—”

“Oh, so glad you think my wife _serves a purpose_ ,” Quentin says, a little offended, maybe, on Arielle’s behalf.

“I’m just _saying!_ ” Eliot squalks, wiggling a little as Quentin digs his fingers into Eliot’s side, laughing as they play-fight, tussling around in their nest. “She’s not gonna get homone-brained and dumb, she can like— help us remember to _eat and bathe_ —” and Quentin _whines_ a little, distressed, at the thought of Eliot _washing their scent off him, no—_ Eliot’s face softens, as they settle, with Quentin on his back, Eliot laying half on top of him, propped up on an elbow. “Or help us eat at least,” he repeats, bending down to press a kiss— “guard our den,” —soft and sweet— “keep us safe,” —right against— “so I can focus on _you_.” — Quentin’s needy mouth.

“Can I suck it?” Quentin asks, breathless, and he can _feel_ the rumble of Eliot’s laughter against his mouth. “Please, can I suck it before— you know how I get, during.”

“Yeah,” Eliot agrees, fond, pulling back enough that Quentin’s left looking up into his lovely hazel eyes, lit golden by the fire. “Yeah, baby, I know how you get. Sure you don’t want me to save it up?”

A bolt of arousal shoots through Quentin at the thought of Eliot— _saving his come_ , so he can spend all of it inside of Quentin, when he’s ready and open, but— “Are you gonna have a hard time keeping up with me?” He teases, wriggling a hand down between them until he can feel Eliot up through his thin Fillorian trousers. Eliot draws in a long, slow breath, eyelashes fluttering, as Quentin massages his dick through his clothes. 

And god, it’s such a good dick, long and thick, skin loose at the base where that big fat knot’ll grow. Quentin _loves_ this dick, honestly, loves the wide head and heavy balls, loves the _smell_ of it, loves the way it locks inside him. 

“When have I ever,” Eliot starts, voice like gravel, low and dark, his lips against Quentin’s lips, rubbing their faces together, “—had a hard time keeping up with you, brat?”

“Let me suck it,” Quentin wheedles, working his hand at the base of Eliot’s cock as he starts to get hard, playing with the loose knot. “Come on, don’t you want to tie behind my teeth, come down my throat for 30 fucking minutes, El, fuck.”

“Hmm, or you could let me come on your face,” Eliot murmurs back, biting Quentin’s lips through the _moan_ at that idea. “Rub it all over your neck, get it on that bite, make sure everyone who smells you knows you’re _mine_.”

“That, please, _please_ , Eliot,” Quentin begs, and he’s not heat-blank yet, with it enough to feel the little thrill of excitement, to _smell_ Eliot’s excitement, to feel him turning on too through the bond. 

He does let Quentin suck it, though, both of their clothes stripped and tossed about the nest, so Quentin can settle in between Eliot’s thighs like he belongs there. And fuck, he loves it, loves working the long hard length of Eliot’s dick into his throat until he’s ready to come. Then Quentin finds himself flat on his back, helping Eliot squeeze the fat knot at the base of his dick as he comes and comes and _comes_ all over Quentin’s face and chest, god— how did alphas come _so much_? 

He doesn’t exactly _plan_ to end up settled in Eliot’s lap with three of Eliot’s long, dexterous fingers stuffed inside him after that, but— he’s so fucking wet, and honestly, having a little help opening up for the _huge, thick dick_ is never a bad thing, even with heat barreling around the corner. Already he feels tender and needy, with Eliot’s arm around his shoulders, the other hand moving between his legs. Nosing against Eliot’s bare chest, collarbones, he mouths openly at Eliot’s skin, tasting sweat. “How long do you think we have?” he asks, then _moans_ , helplessly, as Eliot works those three fingers precisely over the sensitive swell of his prostate, drawing out another flood of slick. 

“Probably when you wake up in the morning,” Eliot sighs, rubbing his nose in against Quentin’s hair. “Maybe. I think you’ll be able to sleep through the night.”

Eliot keeps his fingers inside, even after Quentin comes, and it’s— weirdly soothing, god, heat’s _so weird_. It makes him want to be full _all the time_ , makes him want the taste of Eliot’s skin, his mouth, his sweat, his _come_ in his mouth constantly. They’re still like that when Arielle comes home for the evening, a mess of skin and come and sex curled together in the nest. Quentin has enough of his own faculties left to be a little embarrassed, but Eliot’s never been one for shame, sprawling out regally in the nest like he owns the place.

He kinda does.

“Come join us, pretty girl?” Eliot offers, full of so much affection even if his scent is blank of sexual desire. Quentin’s still not exactly sure how this works for Eliot, but he’s so, so grateful it does. It means Quentin can have both their skin that night, his bondmate against his back and his wife against his front, surrounded by alpha and beta scent, blissed out as he falls asleep. 

“Do you think I have time to run into town for supplies?” Quentin hears, half-awake, before dawn the next day. Eliot’s voice is a steady rumble, a balm on the swelling heat under Quentin’s skin, as two pairs of feet move around the cottage. 

“I can go for you,” Arielle offers, and there’s the scrape-thump of a chair being pulled out. “Isn’t the point of being a triad that you don’t have to do everything yourself?”

“I think the point of being a triad is _loving each other_ ,” Eliot points out with amusement in his voice. “It’s not like he married you because we needed a housekeeper, Ari.”

“Yeah? Clean the house a little more, then,” Arielle whips back, teasing, and Quentin— peeks his eyes open to watch them, watch Arielle step up between Eliot’s knees where he’s sitting, pulling on his boots, to brush her fingers through his curls fondly. “You can stay.”

“He’s my _mate_ ,” Eliot says, in a hinged, cracky voice that makes Quentin want to— whine, curl up, offer his neck and belly, all his soft parts to Eliot’s teeth. “And you’re my family. I _need_ to provide for _all of you_.”

“Stupid stubborn alpha,” she chides, sighing, as Eliot stands up, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair. 

“We’re all stupid and stubborn. It’s what makes us Coldwater-Waughs,” Eliot reminds her, leaning forward to brush a kiss against her cheek. “Take care of him, if he’s— until I get back?”

“Oh, I’d do that anyway,” Arielle points out, arms crossing over her chest. “He might be your bondmate, but he’s my husband.”

“Love that about you,” Eliot chirps, and then he’s gone, disappearing out into the cold dark of the pre-dawn morning. 

Quentin dozes a litte, shifting instinctively when Arielle gets back into the nest, curling around her warm body and soft skin as the watery sunlight starts to bleed into the cottage. But the burning under his skin bubbles up before long, bringing with it the hot, mindless emptiness. Oh god, he’s _so empty_ , he can feel it, inside him, down between his legs. Slick and wet and achy, ready, needy, and god— he needs _Eliot_ , he needs his alpha, where _is he—_

“El?” Quentin mumbles, groggy, thoughtlessly following scent, but that leads him only to the abandoned shirt from the previous day, tucked into the soft material of the nest. He’s— _whining_ , needy distressed omega sounds, because god, he’s so wet, cock hard, he’s _ready_ , he _needs—_

“He’ll be back soon,” Arielle murmurs, and her voice cuts through his mind like cool water, like a cold cloth on flushed skin. “Come here, Quentin, sweetheart, I’ll help you.”

He rolls over to her, buries his face in against her velvety skin, nuzzles against the swell of her breasts, soft and yielding against his nose, and god— he loves her, he does, he loves her _smile_ and her _laugh_ and god he _loves her tits_ , and— She smells like _home_ and like she _belongs_ but she’s not _Eliot._ Then her slender hand slips down between his legs, touching him where he’s loose and slick and achy, and he jerks away from her on instinct, whining. It feels _wrong_ , which doesn’t make sense. Quentin’s _gone through heat_ with a female beta as a partner before, more than once but most recently with Alice. And it was fine, it was _fine_ , it was _good_ , he _liked_ it but he wasn’t— he wasn’t _bonded,_ then. It’s not the fucking knot he needs, it’s _Eliot_. 

“It’s alright, my love,” Arielle’s cooing, moving her hand away again to pet him instead, doing— truly— the _best she can_ to help him. “I understand, don’t worry. You could fuck me, hm? Maybe that’ll— then you can sleep, until he gets back. It won’t be long.”

He does fuck her, with three of her long clever fingers buried in his ass where he’s— _wet, open, achey, hot, needy, empty, emptyemptyempty—_ and it’s not enough, it’s not _enough_ , he’s fucking burning alive with heat, except— she’s right, it’s enough to make him pass out after.

Coming to consciousness feels like coming up from underwater, when he finally does. On his stomach in the nest, heat burns under his skin like molten rock, burbling and sluggish. The first thing he’s aware of is a lung-full of charred-plum and spice, and then— the feeling of lips on his neck, nipping, biting kisses, a big hand tangled up in his hair, holding it out of the way. The, _oh_ , bulk of Eliot’s body moving over him, against him, the scratch of his chest hair against Quentin’s back as he— practically _purrs_ , god, that _alpha_ sound, Quentin—

 _Whines_ , and shifts, trying to draw his knees up under him so he can present properly, except Eliot’s bulk is holding him in place, and that’s _better_ , oh, that’s _everything_.

“Look at you, sweet little thing,” Eliot murmurs, breath on Quentin’s overheated skin, making him shiver, _keen_ , arch his neck for Eliot’s teeth. “You’re awake now, aren’t you? Wake up all ready for me?”

“ _It hurts_ ,” Quentin whinest, because— fuck, his entire body his shaking, all of his muscles locking up except down between his legs, where he’s loose and slick and empty. “Please, _please, please_ —”

“I know, I’ve got you,” Eliot murmurs, sitting back and— Quentin _whines_ , because now he’s _cold_ and shaky and hurting, except Eliot’s big steady hands are dragging down his sides to his hips, Eliot’s knees are gently nudging his legs apart, and— instinct, powerful and deep, takes over. Quentin shifts, easily, spreading, ass up and face down which earns him a pleased rumble of assent and one of Eliot’s hands smoothing down over his belly, the other slipping between his cheeks to— _ah, oh_ — slide three fingers right inside. 

Eliot doesn’t tease. He might, normally, but not now, not at the start of a heat. No, his probing fingers are cursory, like somehow Quentin might not— might not be _ready_ , but he is, he is, he is, he is, heisheisheis _heisheis_ —

“I know, sweet boy, I know,” Eliot murmurs, and Quentin’s not even aware of the words tumbling out of his mouth, just of Eliot’s hands on him, one of them wet with Quentin’s own slick, lifting his hips, angling him so— 

Eliot can slide right in.

It’s— _oh_ — Quentin groans, grinding his hot, sweaty face into the material of the quilt under him as pleasure sparkles through every nerve in his body. He’s only been able to take all of Eliot all at once like this during heat, a deep, heavy slide he can feel in his stomach, god it feels— 

“ _So full_ —” He slurs, limp, boneless, impaled on Eliot’s big cock as Eliot’s breath dusts against the back of his neck.

“Yeah,” Eliot agrees mindlessly, working one arm down to wrap around Quentin’s chest, hold him tight up against Eliot’s torso while he braces the other on the blankets by Quentin’s head. And, _hm_ , if Quentin turns his face just right he can put his— _fuck_ — nose and mouth right up against the scently gland on Eliot’s wrist, draw in the smell of his arousal, of his possessiveness, god, of his _love_. Helplessly, Quentin opens his mouth against Eliot’s skin, licking out, sucking, and Eliot swears, jerking _sharply_ , hips fucking in to Quentin in a way the makes him gasp.

“Please,” Quentin mumbles, tongue heavy and inarticulate, muffled by Eliot’s skin. “Please, fuck me, bite me, claim me, knot me, make me— _full_ —”

“I already claimed you,” Eliot whispers, arm tightening around Quentin’s torso so he can start working his hips, long, drawn out thrusts while he can, before the swell of his knot starts catching on the rim. “Put my teeth right here and marked you, and now you’re mine, aren’t you, sweet thing? You mine?”

Quentin whines, neck bared, as Eliot’s tongue darts out along the sensitive gland on Quentin’s throat, tracing over the marks of his own teeth. “Yeah, El, _fuck_ — I’m— _yours_.”

“Mm, that’s right,” Eliot agrees, nipping at Quentin’s throat, not a proper bite like Quentin wants, but— enough to make him shiver all over. Their bodies move together, slick with sweat, Eliot’s thick cock dragging over Quentin’s prostate on every thrust, and he’s— _so wet_ , god, everything between them is wet, god— 

“Please, gimme—” Quentin starts, and then completely forgets how to talk for a moment as Eliot _sucks on the gland at his throat_ — god, it’s going to _bruise_ — and that’s enough to make Quentin come, helpless, needy, shaking, as his dick leaks out a thin stream of fluid but— god, not going soft—

“Good boy,” Eliot cooes, rubbing his hand across Quentin’s chest, over the sensitive points of his nipples, before dragging down his trembling belly to pet—

“ _Ah!_ ” Quentin cries out, shivering— all over, as Eliot plays gently with the over-sensitive head of his cock.

“Give you what?” Eliot prompts, like Quentin’s going to— fucking _remember_ what he was gonna say, but— no, he does—

“Wanna make you come,” he slurs, god he’s— almost drooling, isn’t he, so cock-drunk and needy. “Please, El, wanna— be _full_ —”

“God,” Eliot breathes, letting go of Quentin’s cock to hug him tight back up against his chest. “Yeah, baby, I’ll fill you up. Fill you up so much, fucking— give you a pup. You said you wanted that, yeah? You still want that?”

And god, he does, he _does_ , god— first heat since their family settled into place and there’s not a single contraceptive charm in sight. “ _Please,_ ” he breathes, god, barely a whisper, shaking all over as his wrung out body tries to come again, just at the thought. He wants it, god he wants it, wants to be _full_ , wants to have Eliot’s pups growing inside him.

“Yeah,” Eliot agrees, biting, _finally_ , at the span of Quentin’s throat, making him go limp and boneless, helpless heavy weight in Eliot’s arms. Dark curls, damp with sweat, hang over against Quentin’s face, and god, the feeling of him, fucking long and deep. Getting fucked like this usually feels like being split open in the best way, but now— during heat— it’s more like completion. He can only breathe when Eliot’s pushed inside, god, he wants to keep him there, keep him, keep him— clenching down, Quentin moans, wanting— wanting desperately for Eliot to come. He’s going crazy, desperate, even as the pace of Eliot’s thrust picks up, rapid and clipped until it—

—starts to catch, just, on the rim of Quentin’s hole. He whines, clumsy hands grabbing at Eliot’s arm, trying to just— have something to hold on to, as he clenches down. The returning rumble, deep in Eliot’s chest, is enough to settle him. God, he wants it so much he can fucking taste it.

“ _Knot me_ ,” he begs, gasping, “— gimme your pups, please, please, _please_ , fill me up.”

“Fuck,” Eliot breathes, slaming in and then catching, on the next pull back, sharp tug that Quentin cry out and clench down. Gripping Eliot’s cock into him, Quentin comes in another helpless, weak spurt, waves of pleasure radiating out through his body, tingling out to his nipples, the fucking tips of his fingers. A few more short, sharp thrusts deep inside Quentin’s body and Eliot’s starting to come, knot inflating, locking them together tight.

He can feel, just, the fine tremors shaking through Eliot’s body. God— everything is so messy, they’re both a sweaty, panting, shivering wreck. The fog of heat starts to recede a little, just temporarily, as Quentin becomes aware of his surroundings again: the smell of the fireplace, the sound of Arielle moving around in the bedroom, god, _Ari—_

But mostly he’s aware of Eliot, the bulk of him against Quentin’s back, the wide stretch of his clock inside. “El,” Quentin breathes out, reaching back clumsily to pet his fingers through Eliot’s damp curls, cup the back of his skull.

“I’m here, it’s okay,” Eliot murmurs in response, nose dragging along the back of Quentin’s neck as he tightens his arm around him, keeps him close as he pulls and rolls them— gently— onto their sides, careful of where they’re tied together. The shift in position changes the way Eliot’s dick sits in his body, and Quentin moans weakly. Reaching down, he presses his hand against the plane of his own stomach, feeling— god, Eliot’s cock inside of him. Pushing below his navel makes it feel just— _huge_ , god, it’s so big, that fat knot as big as Eliot’s fist plugging him up, keeping it all inside. All that come, slowly leaking into him, he’s— gonna be so _full_.

“Give it to me,” he breathes, pushing down again, god, he swears he can feel it, feel the shape of Eliot’s cock deep in his gut. It makes a shiver of pleasure shoot through him, and he clenches down, helplessly, on the knot inside him. “Get me all wet inside”.

“Fuck,” Eliot breathes out, drawing in a deep breath. His arms tighten around Quentin, holding him close, one hand sliding down to tangle with Quentin’s on his stomach. “Try to relax, okay? Maybe get some sleep before the next wave.”

“Wanna feel you in me,” Quentin protests weakly, clenching again, making Eliot hiss.

“I’m in you,” Eliot purrs, petting, _god_ , his other hand up to cup his palm over Quentin’s throat, thumb and index finger against his jaw. Quentin swallows against it, feeling the resistance of Eliot’s palm against his Adam's apple. “I’m gonna be in you for hours, sweetheart. _Days_ , maybe, if your heat lasts.”

It almost never does, but right now the idea sparks along his brain, making his cock twitch. “God, yeah, fuck me for _days_.” Then he starts giggling, which makes Eliot laugh, rich and deep, god, Quentin can feel his happiness through the bond, his _love_.

“So you should rest, now,” Eliot prompts, logical argument, thumb brushing again and again over the bite mark on Quentin’s throat. 

It lasts another 12 hours, maybe, leaving them both wrung out and exhausted. Arielle comes in and out, does as she promised, brings them food and water and guards their nest, and— at the very end, when Eliot’s passed out, Quentin fucks her again, at the edge of the nest, just so— just so she’s a part of it. Just so she knows she’s a part of them. 

Then it’s over, for another six months at least. Days pass much as they always do on the mosaic. They’re all a little giddy, a little giggly, like being newly weds and freshly bonded all over again. At night, they sit by the fire all three of them, with Eliot smoothing his hand over Quentin’s stomach, Quentin touching Arielle’s, all of them thinking the same thing: _family_. 

God, Quentin wants it, in a way he never understood when he was younger, reckless and wild and quest-driven. There’s still a quest, of course, but some days it feels like the idea of the quest has mellowed out into a third life-long partner, something that will be with him always. Why not put down roots here? Why not dig in deep, drink of the land and flourish in the sunlight? Why not _grow_ , with Eliot and Arielle as the twin pillars of his life, holding him up. Why _not_ bring life and joy and more love into it all?

It takes weeks, but it becomes obvious eventually that only one of them managed to catch during the heat. Arielle starts showing, and Quentin— does not.

“You’re disappointed,” Arielle murmurs to him, late one night, as he’s fussing around her, creating a nest she can den down in comfortably in the coming months. Really it’s just their bed, but he’d shoved it up against the corner, where the walls would give enough support to make something passable. It’ll be cramped, if all three of them try to share it, but— Eliot sleeps outside a lot in the summer, anyway. And who’s to say Arielle would even _want_ Eliot in her nest. She jokes that marrying Quentin meant marrying Eliot too, but there’s a far cry from joking about your unconventional triad and— wanting someone in your nest. Quentin can bounce between the two of them, if it comes to that, if _he’s_ allowed in the nest even though he’s not—

—since he doesn’t have to den down, too.

"You were hoping they'd both take, weren't you?" Ari asks him, softly, her hands petting just-there bump on her stomach. "That we could den together." 

"I... Maybe, yeah," Quentin admits, feeling weirdly guilty as he looks into her lovely face. She's so beautiful, and even more with their _pup_ growing in her, but— there's still a part of him that feels like he's failed, for not giving this to Eliot too. "I can still make you a good nest, and... stay with you here?" 

"Of course," she agrees, petting his neck in that way she learned from El, that she has no instinct for but makes Quentin feel like liquid. "You make the best nests, my love."

They learn, much later, that the same improvised mood-stabilizing herbs they threw together in some desperate bid to keep Quentin’s broken brain from killing him also happen to have a contraceptive effect in male omegas. Which is fine, they have Teddy, it really is fine, even when it becomes obvious Teddy is all they're ever going to have. 

It's not worth Quentin going off the meds, Eliot insists. "I don't need it," he repeats, again and again. "I don't need that from you. We _have_ a pup. God knows I don't exactly have a genetic goldmine to pass along with just... generations of alcoholism and high blood pressure."

Missing, somehow, entirely, that it's Quentin who needs it, really. It's the only thing they never manage to get on the same page about. 

Or. He thought it was. 

* * *

* * *

#### 4— The Monster

It starts with the timeshare spell.

Quentin somehow managed to forget, over the course of the last few week’s _unending shit and misery_ , that he’d gone into heat at Brakebills South. He’s focused entirely, completely, with all that he has in him on _placating_ the baby-god-monster currently taking Eliot’s body for a joy ride just long enough to get it _out of him_. Everyone else’s focus keeps shifting, straying towards ways to _kill_ the monster, rather than exorcise it, like they had any _idea_ what the Monster was like, like it— like it treated _any one of them_ the way it treated Quentin.

There was a reason _Quentin_ was the one left placating it.

“This body thinks you smell like _mine_ ,” the _thing_ wearing Eliot’s face had muttered, rubbing Eliot’s nose along Quentin’s jaw in a way that made him want to— _shudder_ in revulsion. At least the Monster didn’t smell like Eliot, sour human-body smell overlaid with sulfur and ozone, unnatural, disconcerting. But Quentin’s— Quentin’s _good_ at placating, smoothing over, it’s not _wildly_ unlike having a toddler, if your average toddler possessed the ability to level a city block when bored. Quentin’s _raised_ a toddler before, he can— he can tell when to put his foot down, and when to just practice harm reduction.

But the Incorporate Bond was actually a functionally good idea, if they could figure out a way to get the Monster out of Eliot, and Margo was working on that. That left Quentin and Alice to figure out the Bond, and Quentin going back to talk to Myakovsky made sense.

He just— forgot, somehow, that he’d be coming out of heat, when he appears in his body 3 years in the past and—

It’s fine, it’s _fine_ , the world and Eliot ( _Eliot, Eliot, Eliot, EliotEliotEliotEliot_ ) are at stake, Quentin can— he can suffer through the last dregs of heat and endure Myakovsky’s creepy comments to get what he needs, and get out. 

He comes back to the present to find his current-body— fuck, weaker, he can tell he’s physically weaker than he was 3 years ago, has he lost that much weight? Has he been sleeping that badly?— being kissed by Alice, and— 

There’s a moment, isn’t there, where he’s tempted. 

Not because he’s in love with her, which is the shittiest thing of all. He doesn’t love her. There’s a part of him that’s always going to feel 22 and wildly, desperate in love with the bright sharp girl who’d helped him through that heat, who he’d stood with in her childhood bedroom, nose to nose, thinking he’d never feel this close to another human in his life. But he feels, in the very core of him, a lot closer to 72 than 22, most days. And he _had_ felt that close to someone else, _closer_ , god, he— remembers, in the seconds of her lips pressed to his, the feeling of Eliot’s teeth sinking into his neck, the bond between them crackling to life and— feeling, more than anything else, _Eliot’s fear_. How terrified he was, that something between them would break, fundamentally, when Quentin had direct access to his inner landscape.

It hadn’t. It had been _beautiful._

No, it’s not tempting because he’s in love with her. It’s tempting because it’s _easy_. The feeling of heat still lingers under his skin from the time swap, and Alice is here, and she’d— try to take care of him, even if she’d never been all that good at it. She clearly, fuck, she clearly _misses_ the version of him that she’d known here in first year, in the same way part of he misses her younger self sometimes, before niffins and betrayal and Quentin bonding with someone else colored their lives. Frankly, it feels nice to be wanted. 

It is tempting, but not tempting enough.

So he turns away from her, assuming that the feeling of impending heat will dissipate as the effects of the spell wear off.

By the time they get back to the penthouse, he’s less sure of that. 

“What am I going to _do_ ,” Quentin groans, rubbing his hands over his face, more to himself than to Alice, sitting perched on one of the counter stools in the penthouse. “I _can’t_ go into heat— the Monster already thinks I’m his favorite plaything, and— _Eliot’s body knows me_.”

“We could try to keep you hidden away,” Alice suggests, and then a little upward to tick in her voice: “I could help you?”

And he— he doesn’t want to _hurt her_ , but—

He shakes his head, looking around the abandoned Penthouse. Julia’s gone, and— they’re in _crisis mode_ , now, two monsters out in the world, and Quentin has, what, _minor mendings_ to offer in defense of his—

Not his mate.

Not. 

Not anymore. 

“There’s gotta be some other option,” he sighs, exhausted, leaning his hands forward on the counter. “There’s like— heat suppressants, right? Omegas in the military use those.”

“I’m hardly an expert,” Alice says, mouth pinching down in a frown, smoothing her hands over her skirt as she neatly crosses her legs, shaking off the half-rejection like water. “But I think what you’re talking about is like— hormonal birth-control, but amped up. You have to take it every day for it to delay or augment your hormone cycle. What you’re talking about—”

“Disrupts everything,” Quentin agrees, shoulders pulling up to his ears, tense. God the whole line of his spine hurts from tension, has for weeks. “Yeah, I know.”

“It could hurt you,” Alice says, and— god, everything between them is so complicated, but clearly she doesn’t want him hurt anymore than the reverse. But the truth is:

“So could he.”

At any other time in his life, Quentin would probably look to Julia for help with this, but she’s— she’s _gone_ , she’s possessed, all of Quentin’s people keep getting _taken_ and— Maybe Margo could help, if he asked, but she was busy looking for a way to help Eliot and dealing with fillory so. So Quentin’s got limited options, as to how to proceed, doesn’t he?

"I need," he says, cornering Kady the moment she gets back from the library, "-heat suppressants."

"Why is this a me problem?" Kady asks, bitchy, pulling off the glasses she’s wearing for some reason, like it might be giving him the wrong idea about her approachability. It’s not, he just doesn’t have much else to go on. 

"Because I know you got Julia a demi-god abortion. And I need something that will work _immediately_. For an oncoming heat.”

Kady’s nostrils flare, and he knows that she’s— _scenting_ him, and he only— bites down on the impulse to lash out at her for it ( _Eliot, Eliot, oh god, you're not_ his _anymore_ ) because— he needs her to get it. Her expression goes surprised, and then haunted, and she’s— she may be a prickly bitch, but he doesn’t think she’s going to turn away an omega in need, no matter her preferences. Especially when that _need_ requires little from her, personally. “Fucking hell, Coldwater,” she says, succinctly, and yeah. Basically that. “You know the shit that will shut this down fast enough is dangerous, right? Like, especially... look, you're not exactly a paragon of emotional stability.”

“I don’t care,” Quentin says, the edge of panic seeping into his voice. “I don’t care what it does to me, Kady, I don’t— I _need_ to not go into heat right now. Not— not until— I just need help.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Kady tosses back, already turning away from him.

Which, take what you can get, he supposes. Not much else to do but dig into the information on the binding with Alice and ignore the way that his entire face feels— flushed, warm, too-warm, but also— chilly, like he wants to— lay down by a fire. Alice keeps shooting him worried glances, but he ignores it, stubbornly, because he’s _not_ , he’s not _doing_ this, not with _anyone_ , not now. Not with Julia and Eliot’s lives on the line.

“You need one night,” Kady says, later, slipping the little bag of two pills into his hands. “You’ll be back in commission after that, or at least enough to help us distract the Monster and cast the binding. But it’s gonna knock you on your ass for a night. Get somewhere you can be pretty sure you’re safe.”

Quentin doesn’t— _actually_ laugh directly in her face, partially because he’s honestly too aware of the prickling feeling of heat under his skin to laugh at an alpha, regardless of if they’re _his_ alpha, or not. What the fuck is _safe_ , from a Monster the gods feared? What’s _safe_ , when it’s got your scent, when it thinks you _smell like you belong to it_ —

“Is there going to be anyone here?” he asks instead, looking down at the little pills because it’s easier than looking at her.

“Probably?” Kady huffs, arms crossing over her chest. “Josh is a fish, I think? I’m not sure what’s going on, honestly. But Penny’ll be here to get you in the morning, so— handle your shit, and then you can, you know—”

“Have a breakdown after?” he fills in, dryly, and the smile Kady gives him in response isn’t exactly unkind. 

“For what it’s worth, this is a shit hand to be dealt. I’m sorry I can’t do more to help.”

“Let’s hope this is enough,” Quentin sighs, and opens the bag. 

Safe, huh?

So he makes a den. 

Or— something approaching one, while he waits for the suppressants to kick in. He pulls the duvet off the bed he’s been sleeping in, on the rare days he actually gets the opportunity to sleep in a bed, as opposed to on the couch or in a chair or half-standing up somewhere, following the Monster around like some daranged murder-baby Quentin’s been charged with baby-sitting. Duvet, and two pillows, and then he dumps them in the shower cubical in the bathroom because the smaller the space you’re trying to ward, the less magic it takes. He’s still going to end up blacking out the block for the whole night, probably, with the amount ambient it takes, but— fuck, what else is he supposed to do? 

So he casts a barrier spell and a scent-masking spell and a non-detection spell, and gets most of the way through an anti-life-shell charm before the ambient magic peters out. Well— As safe he’s going to get, probably, he starts half-heartedly trying to arrange the bedding in the shower cubicle. It’s a small space, and he’s going to have to curl up, but— fuck, it’s hardly the weirdest place he’s slept.

Curling up on his side, knees to his chest, Quentin closes his eyes— and waits. The first obvious sign of _something_ happening to him is a change in body temperature. He’d been starting to sweat, a normal part of the heat, but the sweat turns— _cold_ — cold sweat leaving him wracked with chills. It feels much more like a fever than any heat he’s ever had before, and much more intense. Shivers chase his body as, twisting, he curls into the cocoon of the duvet more tightly.

Next comes the pain— starting in his stomach, sharp throbbing pain like all of the muscles in his abdomen are constricting at once. It leaves him gasping, curling his arms around his stomach against the sharp, tugging pain. Oh, god, it _hurts, it hurts_ — 

A wave of nausea rolls over him, and— he fights it off, because he can’t open the shower to throw up in the toilet, it’ll break the wards. No, he just needs to— he just needs to hold on— he just needs to fucking— keep it _together_ , Coldwater— 

Desperately, grasping for anything, he remembers— he remembers—

_“You smell like honey, and like— wax,” Eliot had murmured to him, in the cobbled together nest, 7 odd months into the mosaic. Quentin’s inconvenient heat had left them with the choice of ‘pretend we’re not friends who occasionally have sex and kick Eliot out for a week’ or ‘weather this together.’ Quentin had thought, honestly, that Eliot would take the out— but he didn’t. Instead, he was here, on the quilt, one of their meager possessions, trailing his index finger up and down Quentin’s spine as they savored a lull in the heat._

_“So I’m a bee?” Quentin had asked drowsily, and Eliot had laughed and kissed his shoulder, the flesh one, and rubbed his nose up under Quentin’s loose hair._

_“Honey bee,” he’d hummed, nonsensical, and started kissing his way— down Quentin’s spine—_

Gasping, Quentin grinds his forehead against the shower floor, eyes welling up as grief claws at his throat, thinking of—

 _The way Eliot looked 4 months later, during rut, flushed and wild and desperately hungry,_ begging _— “Put it in, god, Q— let me take it—” as he slid down on Quentin’s cock, smaller and slimmer than an alpha’s with no knot, slick with the same cooking oil they’d used to open Eliot up— “Oh, Q— fuck— baby—”_

—or—

_Laying wound together, nose to nose, even though it required a truly ridiculous level of contortion for Quentin to lay with his right leg tucked up enough that Eliot’s knot wasn’t pulling uncomfortably. But it was worth it, to feel Eliot’s breath on his face, as the new bond pulsed dully between them._

_“You’re happy,” Eliot had murmured, sounding—_ fucking floored _, honestly, and Quentin had—_

_Giggled. Nodded, close enough that his nose rubbed against Eliot’s with the motion. “I am,” he’d agreed, and felt— an answering tug of wonder and fear in Eliot._

Quentin blinks out tears, thinking— _he called me “darling” for the first time, that night—_ and— _I need to save him. God, I don’t care what happens after, just— let me save him._

Numbness comes after a while. Dullness. Like— like he’s seeing the world with the saturation turned down, or— or like he’s lost the ability to process what’s happening at the same speed. Like he’s slightly out of phase with reality. Everything feels— distant. The pain feels distant but— so does the comfort of the memories. Those beautiful little pieces, the fragments, pieces that fit together like colored tiles— all of it slips away like so much water held between clasping fingers.

Eyes closed, finally, Quentin sleeps.

* * *

* * *

#### 5— The Penthouse

They hadn’t let Quentin go into the seam. 

He’s— kind of too out of it to wonder why, or if it should worry him, knocked squarely on his ass by the suppressants. But Margo’s with Eliot (not Eliot’s body, Eliot, _Eliot, Eliot)_ at Brakebills, and Kady and Alice and Penny disappear into the seam, and—

Quentin’s left alone, in the penthouse. 

So he makes a nest. There’s a little den-room, on the first floor of the condo, tasteful and discrete, currently occupied by a single potted plant and not much else, and well— it’s not like Kady or Marina had much use for a den, did they? But nesting is soothing, and— and then he has a quiet, private place where no one can bother him. No one can look at him. No one can see him.

There’s not much to nest with, in this sterile, fussy penthouse, but he doesn’t have much left in him to care, so— a couple thin blankets and the uncomfortable pillows from the couch will have to do. He can’t even make himself look at the duvet he’d left in the shower cubical after he crawled out and back into the fight. That can burn in literal hell, as far as he’s concerned. 

It’s not a very good nest, tucked away in the little den room, and Quentin— _remembers_ good nests, now that the suppressants are wearing off. He remembers how good a nest could be even when you didn’t have much, when you could pile all the soft things you owned into a safe little well for your family, curl up there with your mate and your pup and know that you were— _safe_.

So it’s. It’s not a good nest, but it’s quiet and private, and dark, and maybe not warm but at least not actively cold, and— that’s enough. Enough for his shakey, hormone-riddled body to finally give up the fight and crash head-long into sleep for the better part of 24 hours, twisted up in the corner of the den in a half-built nest which is really just walls on three sides and a tangled twist of blankets. 

He wakes up in the middle of the night, disoriented and dry-mouthed, with a crook in his neck and desperately in need of a piss. He waits just long enough to listen, hear if there’s movement out in the main room of the penthouse. Everything sounds quiet, even when he cautiously pushes open the door to the den, no— well, no monster, but there wouldn’t be, would there? No sound of Julia, either, or Alice or Penny.

(Or Eliot or Margo, but— he’s not really expecting—)

He’s so focused on getting to the bathroom without disturbing anyone that he doesn’t notice the bundle on the floor by the door to the den-room. No, he just books it. Standing in the bathroom, drinking water straight from the tap because why the fuck not, Quentin carefully avoids looking in the mirror like he’s been carefully avoiding looking in mirrors since— well, since the lack of a bite on his throat became something noticable, instead of normal. He does notice the bundle on his way back, though, tucked off to the side of the door. 

Hesitantly, he crouches down in front of it, poking at it until it becomes obvious what it is: a throw blanket, wrapped around a pillow and some water bottles, a handful of granola bars and a packet of trail-mix. The pillow, when he brings it up to his nose, smells like Julia— the particular scent of her shampoo and her perfume, overlaying her familiar, fresh-cut-grass-beta smell. It smells like her, and the case on the pillow looks like it matches the mix-and-match white sheets of the bedding in the condo, but— 

It’s not the kind of thing Julia would think to do, is it? Even after all these years, she’s never understood the impulse to den.

Still, it’s a familiar smell, a comforting smell, a _family_ smell, so Quentin takes the little bundle into the den with him. Tucking away the food and the water, he readjusts the pitiful little nest so he can curl up on the warm throw blanket and stick his nose in the _Julia-_ smell and pass the fuck out again for another twelve hours.

There’s movement in the condo the next time Quentin wakes up, voices— female voices, but he can’t make out anything more than that, and well. Most of the people who would have a right to be in this condo are women, so that’s not surprising. He contemplates going out, joining them, asking— what happened with the seam, with Everet, what happened to— _Eliot_? He should want to see people, right? It’d be— it’d be good, except then they could see him, and then he wouldn’t be in his den, and then they could maybe tell him Eliot’s dead and—

Sharp stab of pain pulse behind his eyes, leaving Quentin biting down on his whines, his _stupid, fucking stupid omega distress sounds_ , he doesn’t _want_ anyone to know he’s hurting, he doesn’t _want_ anyone bothering him, god what’s the point of having a nest if not to _keep people out of it?_

The point, he knows of course, is to keep the people you love in it, but— all he wants is to be alone, so why is he just— why is he so fucking _lonely_. He doesn’t want to have to talk to _Julia_ , who’s going to look at him with all her worried-gotta-fix-it concern and not understand that every day he sees less and less point to being alive. He certainly doesn’t want to talk to _Alice_ , who saw him letting the Monster drag him around by his neck like a whelping pup and looked _pitying_ , like she knew how useless and weak he was— always a play thing left hurting for the shells of the people he loves.

No, being alone is better. Being alone is good, being alone is what he wants, he wants it, he wants to shrivel up and die here, alone in this cold den with his shitty nest where no one will ever come look for him.

Curling up, up into the tiniest ball he can manage, tucked in the corner of the nest, Quentin buries his face in the worn-soft material of his jeans and cries for a long, long time. Until his head is throbbing and sore, and he’s leaking out of just about every part of his face, god, so _gross_ , how could Eliot ever stand to _touch me when I’m like this?_

He manages to drink about half a water bottle before he passes out again, feeling weak and shaky and achingly, _achingly_ lonely. 

When he wakes up later that night, he’s immediately sure that something _woke_ him up. Some sound from within the apartment, maybe, or— there’s a lingering waft of scent in the air, scent so familiar that Quentin’s throwing the door to the den open before he’s even thought about it, but— The penthouse is dark, and quiet, and there’s nothing notable to see besides a new pile of items left beside the door to the den: a soft micro-fleece blanket like the kind Eliot had at Brakebills still in it’s packaging, a matching pillow in soft fleece, a stack of clothing, and a brown paper bag. Curious, he opens the bag, finds a couple cut up apples, and cheese slices, a single serving bag of chips, a bagel and a note— Quentin’s heart almost stops when he sees—

Eliot’s familiar hand-writing:

__

_There’s cream cheese in the fridge, and peanut butter in the cupboard_

_Eat something, Q, I’m serious. Just eat something._

_— El_

Feeling— _desperate_ , fucking _starving_ , Quentin discards the food and digs into the pile of nest padding, searching for _something_ , anything, a _trace_ of Eliot more substantial than his handwriting, than the all-block caps and loop of the E and the L. But the pillow and the blanket all smell new, a slightly chemical scent which isn’t _bad_ it’s just not what he _needs_. The clothes, well, the t-shirt and pajama pants are his, and changing into them is probably a good idea, isn’t it, he’s still wearing the black jeans and black long sleeve shirt and black hoodie he’d worn into the forest to trick the Monster, god he probably smells _disgusting—_ But there’s a cardigan, and Quentin pauses. Hands hovering over it, shaking a little, because Quentin doesn’t _own_ cardigans, but— 

Eliot does. 

Shaking, all of him leaf-trembling all over, Quentin brings the cardigan up to his face so he can bury his nose in it, inhale deeply the familiar orchard-and-pie scent, rich and deep with _none_ of the lingering smell of sulfur and ozone, none at all. God, _Eliot_. _Eliot’s_ worn this, _recently_ , it’s not— it’s not body warm, but the smell is fresh, fresh enough that he can smell the slight sour note of blood and pain. Eliot’s in _pain_ , god, of course he is. He just got _stabbed_. But he’s _here_ , he’s alive, and he smells right, and he’s bringing Quentin padding for his nest and food and leaving out soft clothes that smell like him, and—

Distantly, Quentin recognizes that he’s crying again, and he can’t _possibly_ be succeeding in biting off the sound of it. He must be just _broadcasting_ distress into the penthouse, and— there’s still a reason he doesn’t want that, right? So he manages to pull himself together with a monumental act of will, drag the whole little haul into the den and get the door shut, disappear back into the dark and the cool and the silence. He even has enough focus left to shuck his days-old clothes, kick them into the far corner of the den and wriggle into the pajama pants and t-shirt before collapsing. Not even in the nest, just—

Sprawled out on the floor of the den-room, shaking with sobs as he clutches the cardigan to him, drags in lung-fulls of the Eliot-scent from the knit. God, he doesn’t even know why he’s _crying_ , he’s just— overwhelmed, oversaturated, strung out, wrung out, empty. 

He’s sobbing so loudly he almost doesn’t hear the shuffling out in the main space of the penthouse. Except there’s that _scent_ , that heady, alpha scent, that scent that still, still, still, _still_ _smells like home_ and _mate_ and _safe_ and _kept_ — it’s getting stronger. There’s movement, close to the den, and Quentin’s left hiccuping down his sobs, because he can’t— he can’t be _sure_ , but—

“El?” Quentin calls out, breath held so he’s not just — drawing in more of the cinnamon, burned wood, plumminess of Eliot’s scent, on the other side of the door.

The shuffling stops, and then, hesitant, Eliot answers: “Yeah, Q?”

If Quentin wasn’t so exhausted, so lonely, so desperate, he might not be able to do it. But everything inside of him is calling out for Eliot, for the person he knows is attached to that smell, and he can only hope that— something in Eliot wants him just as much. “You can come in, if you want,” Quentin offers, heart in his throat, bracing for ‘ _I don’t think that’s a good idea’_ or ‘ _not if we have a choice.’_

Bracing so hard, in fact, that he’s almost surprised, when the den-room door clicks open.

Eliot has showered, at least, since— since Quentin last saw his body. Shaved, looks like, too, and he’s wearing another cardigan on top of a button up and— he still looks sunken, haunted, dark circles under his eyes and leaning heavily on a cane, but he _smells_ like Eliot, peeking around the doorframe of the den-room.

“Are you alright?” Quentin asks, heart— _slamming_ in his chest, because the last time he’d seen Eliot he’d been _bleeding from the stomach_ —

“I think that’s my line,” Eliot breathes out, half a laugh, and— god, fucking hell, just his _voice_ and Quentin’s tearing up, snotty and blubbery which makes it totally unconvincing when he says— “ _I’m fine_ ,” in a half sobbing protest, like Eliot can’t _smell_ him, like he won’t _know—_ like Quentin wasn’t just— sprawled out on the floor clutching a tear-and-snot-wet sweater. 

“Liar,” Eliot says, fondly, tenderly, then he’s— telegraphing his movements as he steps into the den like Quentin hadn’t just invited him in, like he’s still half expecting to be thrown _out_ — and then he hits a light switch by the door which bathes the whole room in soft, diffused light and Quentin blinks because. He didn’t even know there was a light in here. “Have you just been sitting in the dark for days?”

“Been asleep, mostly,” Quentin admits, tears still leaking out of him as he looks around the little den, god, the nest is a mess, not near good enough to share, not when Eliot’s _injured_ — “God, I wasn’t— let me fix this, hang on.”

“Q, it’s fine, it doesn’t matter—”

But Quentin shakes his head, because he suddenly can’t look at Eliot anymore, with his too-long hair and the bruise-purple skin under his eyes and the white-knuckle grip he’s keeping on the cane, the way he’s leaning heavily against the door frame. It’s easier to take the blanket out of its packaging and move the pillow in with the rest, finally enough now to give some structure to the nest. There’s the Julia-pillow on one-side and the new pillow next to it, and if he carefully tucks Eliot’s cardigan over the throw pillows from the couch they’re not so bad, really. 

If he’s busy tucking in the sweater, he’s not— he’s not—

He’s not crying, except, god— he _is_ , isn’t he, when is he going to be _done_ crying, just— kneeling in the middle of a slightly less shitty nest, hunched over and trying to bite back sobs—

“ _Q_ ,” Eliot breathes, still— _hesitating_ , what does he want, a fucking engraved invitation?— before stepping into the nest, reaching out to brush his hand against Quentin’s hair. It sends a spark of electricity down Quentin’s nerves, all jangly and confused, and he’s not— not sure if he’s supposed to push into the touch or pull away from it. It leaves him blinking up at Eliot from the floor, and this close he can _smell_ —

Blood. And cold, bright magic, off-center from his navel, where all the good-Eliot-smells fade away. _God_. “Let me,” Quentin mumbles, scrubbing his hands over his face because he doesn’t have sleeves to wipe the tears with, does he? “— here, let me help you, god, you should lay down. Do you— here.”

“I’m fine, Q,” Eliot promises, low alpha rumble that makes Quentin feel like he’s had an egg cracked over his head, but— Eliot lets Quentin help him down into the nest, anyway, until he’s settled in against the pillows and blankets, and it’s— It’s not the best nest, probably, but it’ll— It’ll do, probably.

“Do you need anything?” Quentin asks, worrying, twisting his hands, god, he’s got no hair to hide behind and no sleeves to fiddle with, this is literally the worst. Nothing to distract him from Eliot, Eliot, _Eliot_ — in his nest and looking at him with no small amount of concern. 

“Can you stop trying to take care of me for a second?” Eliot says, gently, and Quentin—

Bites his lip, shakes his head, looking away as the tears well up again.

“No— no, I literally can’t.”

“Q— god, you smell _so upset_ ,” Eliot breathes out, reaching out until he can catch Quentin’s hand, tugging a little until he can get his fingers around Quentin’s wrist, rub the scent gland soothingly. “I promise I’m okay, look, I’m here, I’m safe, you’re safe, we’re both here.”

“I, um—” Quentin starts, drawing in a deep, shaky breath that’s just— _dripping_ like overripe plums and summer sunlight, god, it’s making him _lightheaded_ — “I skipped a heat. Took some black-market suppressants, they, like— fucked me up more than normal, I guess. Sorry if it’s— bad or whatever—”

“It’s okay. You’re okay,” Eliot repeats, tugging a little more forcefully at Quentin’s wrist. And god, Quentin wants to fold right down into him, doesn’t he? He wants to just— rub his face into Eliot’s stomach, bury his nose in the scratchy hair on Eliot’s chest, but— he can’t because. Because Eliot’s injured. Because Eliot’s not— because _he’s_ not _Eliot’s_ anymore.

He doesn’t realize he’s whining a little until Eliot’s pushing to sit up, scooting in close and reaching out, still— telegraphing his movements, still giving Quentin time to pull away if he wants to, but— Reaching out, and sliding his _bigwarmheavy_ palm across Quentin’s hair and down— oh, _ah_ — across the sensitive gland at his throat and then back. Touching him, god, it feels like Eliot’s touching him everywhere, holding the back of Quentin’s neck with his thumb brushing softly against the tender skin under his jaw— _tugging_. Tugging Quentin towards him, towards the crook of his neck, the ball of his shoulder, towards the soothing rumbling hum of a reassuring purr, god— Quentin’s helpless to do anything but collapse over, mouth open, drawing in lungful after lungful that _rich_ alpha scent, of his _mate, his mate—_

“I’m sorry, Q,” Eliot murmurs, low and basey, a vibration Quentin can _feel_ through Eliot’s chest where he’s half leaning against him. “I’m so sorry, baby, I’m so, so sorry for— god, everything.”

Quentin’s helpless to do anything other than whimper. God, they should— they need to _talk_ , there’s so many things they need to talk about, except Quentin can barely _think_ with a mouth full of stone-fruit and cinnamon and charcoal scent. Eliot’s body is big, solid and warm against him, and it _smells right_ , he _smells right_ , God— How has Quentin gone this long without this smell, without the gentle, sure caress of Eliot’s hands? It’s nothing, nothing at all like how the Monster touched him. Quiet, tentative, almost without meaning to, Quentin starts, “Can I—” and then he stutters out, losing his nerve.

“Anything,” Eliot promises, and Quentin almost laughs, because— god, he can’t have _anything_ , that’s been made perfectly clear. But.

Eliot’s in his nest.

This Eliot, _his_ Eliot, the Eliot who— who never sunk his teeth into Quentin’s neck or playfully tusselled with their pup the grass near the vegetable garden— _this_ Eliot had never, never once, come inside a den, even when Quentin offered. 

He’s here now. 

He’s here, rubbing his wrist against Quentin’s jaw as he strokes his hair, and Quentin can just— turn his face a little, just a bit, to rest his cheek against the scent gland in Eliot’s wrist. Rub, carefully, smearing Eliot’s scent all over him, just— god, _all over him_ , he wants it _all over him._ He wants it to linger for _days_ , he wants— everyone they know to smell Eliot all over him, he wants people at the bodega to smell an alpha’s scent fucking _all over him_. 

“Q,” Eliot says again, low and firm, steady— at least the Monster never _sounded_ like Eliot, he never _felt_ like Eliot, he never _smelled_ like Eliot— Eliot’s other hand comes up so he’s cradle Quentin’s skull with one hand and petting his hair, his cheek, his neck with the other, coaxing Quentin to look at him even though all Quentin wants to do is close his eyes and bury himself alive in scent. “You said you missed a heat, are you— I mean, can you think clearly?”

“‘m not going into heat,” Quentin mumbles, even though _thinking_ and _clearly_ are both kind of foreign concepts to him at the moment. “Do I smell like I am?”

Eliot’s face is troubled. “I can’t tell. All I can smell is how upset you are.” Quentin blinks, then looks away as much as he can with Eliot’s hands holding his head. “Everything else is clouded— from the suppressants, I guess. Probably going to take a while for those to work their way out of your system.”

Quentin’s eyes prickle with tears again, but this time Eliot’s thumbs brush gently at the tender skin under his eyes, a thoughtless soothing rumble purring out of him. It makes Quentin feel _liquid,_ exhausted and drained. “Can I take your shirt off?” he asks, too worn out to fight the instinct any longer, the _hunger_ , the deep need inside him to seek out comfort through skin-contact.

“Oh, twist my arm,” Eliot says, amused, and Quentin would— he’d be annoyed with him, probably, for making light of it, except, well. He’s _here._

Quentin sits back, reaching out to help Eliot unbutton his dark green shirt. In the dim diffused light of the den, he’s still pale, a little sickly looking, definitely too thin. God, Quentin’s done such a _bad job_ of this, hasn’t he, of keeping Eliot safe. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, as they work Eliot’s shirt off his shoulders together, being careful of the square bandage taped to his side. 

“I can’t imagine what you’d have to be sorry for,” Eliot points out, strain in his voice and pain in his scent, as Quentin helps him settle back into the pillows at the edge of the nest. 

“I—” Quentin starts, caught off and a little distracted by all of Eliot’s skin in front of him now, pale as cream except for the dark hair over his chest, trailing down from his stomach. Eliot catches him looking, but the smile he offers is a lot more affectionate than it is lecherous, and he holds out an arm in offer— fuck, offering Quentin exactly what he needs. He pauses long enough to wriggle out of his own t-shirt, then shows quite a bit of restraint in resting his ear on the point of Eliot’s shoulder, thank you very much, rather than stick his whole face directly into Eliot’s armpit. 

“Hey,” Eliot says, kind, arm curling around Quentin’s shoulders. “You can get closer if you want.”

And well, Quentin is only human, isn’t he? How the fuck is he supposed to say no to that, when all he wants, has wanted, _for months_ , is the feeling of Eliot’s skin on his, to be bathed in that stonefruit and baking spice smell. Careful of the wound in Eliot’s stomach, Quentin slides over until their torsos are more or less pressed together, close enough that he can— _finally_ — rub his face into the scratchy hair on Eliot’s chest. The scent of him lingers here, and it makes Quentin’s _mouth wet_ — that and the span of Eliot’s hand between his shoulder blades would probably make his damn _ass_ wet, if he wasn’t all screwed up from the suppressants. But he is, and as much as his body is fucking— _revving up_ , because he hasn’t been this close to another human since—well, in this life, _Alice_ , before the key quest— he’s still jittery and touch hungry and _sad_.

“I missed you,” he mumbles, nose and mouth pressed into the skin and hair between Eliot’s pecs, over the steady beat of his heart. “God, I’m sorry, I know we’re not— _bonded_ , or anything, I know— I’m not _yours_. But it still felt like— I just missed you so much.”

“Fuck,” Eliot breathes, under his breath a sharp spike through his scent sour like guilt, bitter like tar. His hand falls on the back of Quentin’s neck, squeezing a little. “I— you have no idea, Q, I missed you too. I was fighting to get here, to get out to you, the whole time.”

“To me?” Quentin can’t help but wonder, skeptical. When he looks up to Eliot, resting his chin on Eliot’s chest instead, he finds a complicated series of emotions on his face. “I wondered, after— in the park— if it was just something you said so I’d know it was you, or if it meant. I dunno, more.”

“It meant more,” Eliot admits, swallowing visibly. “I— You said you’re not mine, but— god, Q, it feels like you are.”

And it _does_ , is the thing, it _does_ feel like that. “You said you didn’t want me,” Quentin mumbles, watching as Eliot flinches, eyes flicking away and then back in that way of his, when he’s too overwhelmed by something to deal with looking at it head on.

“I know, I— I lied.”

“You’re my _mate_ ,” Quentin whines, and it’s not— it’s not exactly true. He’s got no bite to prove it, no bond to lay that claim on. But that doesn’t change the fact that Eliot’s _scent_ still speaks to him, or that— that Eliot’s still his fucking favorite person in the world. That he’d rather lay in his dumb little den with Eliot than do _anything else_. “You’re my mate, and you told me you didn’t want me. Did that hurt you _half_ as much as it hurt me?”

“I—” Eliot swallows, but he’s still— holding, comforting, on to the back of Quentin's neck, thumb brushing against the place his bite would go, if... if they were what it feels like they are. “I don’t know, Q. It hurt a lot— but I think, biologically, it was probably worse for you? I’m just— I’m trying to say I know what I did to you was terrible, and conflating the two would be unfair—”

Quentin lets out an incredulous laugh, tipping his face forwards to hide his eyes and nose against Eliot’s chest and ends up inhaling again, that _woodsy, plummy scent_ — and. He’s not crying, just blinking wetness out of his eyes. Of course Eliot would be fucking— _woke_ enough— to think about the _biology and hormones_ of heart-break.

“Do you want me to leave?” Eliot asks, quiet, soft, like Quentin would ever, _ever_ kick Eliot out of his den.

“If you do, I’ll rip your dick off,” Quentin growls, lifting his face to glare directly into Eliot’s sheepish expression. Then he mumbles, more quietly; “I made it soft for you.”

Eliot’s entire face— _melts_ , and suddenly Quentin just _knows_ , deep down inside him, that they’ll be okay. “You did,” Eliot agrees, hand sliding into Quentin’s short hair, scratching against his scalp. “You make the best nests, baby.” Then, after another pause, softer, without that resonation of _alpha_ in his voice. “You know you’re allowed to be mad at me, right, Q?”

“But you’re here.”

Eliot frowns, serious, and Quentin can’t help ducking his face back against Eliot’s chest again, until Eliot’s fingers tug at his hair, pulling him back up to make eye contact. “I’ll still be here if you’re mad at me,” he says, softly, and Quentin’s stomach turns over, an exhausted flop of anxiety and longing. 

“Promise?”

“Yeah, Q. I promise.”

* * *

* * *

#### +1— Home

The den in their place in upstate New York is kind of functionally a laundry room.

Mostly because it doesn’t make sense, they both agree, to have a whole room in their house that they use primarily during heats and ruts, when they also have a whole room only for sleeping. Why squish the laundry machines into the bathroom when it’s not like they have pups they need to keep away from the soap, and the den’s right there. 

Of course, Quentin doesn’t _just_ nest during heats. But he doesn’t mind. He’s always liked confined spaces for nests more than wide open ones, and Eliot had set up a paper dividing screen to section off the practical side of the room. It just smells clean, and like them, and there were worse things for a den to smell like. He doesn’t even mind the sound of the machines running; it’s weirdly soothing, enough that sometimes, if Eliot’s doing laundry (or if he’s doing laundry _without_ Eliot, a dangerous proposition to begin with), he’ll just curl up on the squashy comforter that lives in there and listen to the sounds of it.

That’s not a proper nest, though. A proper nest means pulling the blankets and pillows off their bed, and the throws off the couch and chairs in the living room, maybe sweaters or shirts of Eliot’s if there are any that haven’t been laundered yet, and arranging everything so it’s _soft_ and _warm_ and _smells right_. It’s soothing to do, it’s comforting, it’s— still a fucking coping mechanism, but, hey, he’s had worse ones. 

But most of the time, the den room is just the laundry room. So Quentin doesn’t think anything of when he gets back from work late, exhausted and grumpy— turns out crises at magic school aren’t any more fun when you’re a teacher than when you’re a student— to see the glow of a light coming from the den-room, as well as the kitchen and the living room. He’d texted Eliot hours ago ( _be home late, marauding carnivorous plants on the loose, all hands on deck situation_ ) before spending hours doing what amounted to crowd control while people who actually fucking understood plants tried to rescue the earstwhile experimenting naturalists. 

He should have just fucking left after office hours, honestly, but _no_ , he had to agree to _stay_ and _help Plum with her research—_

But it doesn’t matter. He’s home now, tying his bike up on the porch, and somewhere inside the little one and a half story house is Eliot and probably some food, and a horizontal surface Quentin can pass out on. What else does he need from life?

The kitchen’s empty, he can see immediately upon opening the front door, though _something_ smells good— rich and buttery and herbaceous. Tossing his keys in the bowl by the door, Quentin drops his satchel and nudges it under the side table with his foot, stopping long enough to hang his coat up next to the four already on the coat wrack— all baring the smokey-fruity scent that makes Quentin’s hackles smooth down. He manages to restrain himself from just— face planting into Eliot’s outerwear, Jesus, and calls out instead: “I didn’t get eaten alive!”

“Glad to hear it!” comes Eliot’s voice, not from the living room as Quentin had expected, but from the den.

He can’t hear the washer running, so Quentin gives in to curiosity and heads towards the den. He’s expecting to find Eliot ironing a shirt, maybe, or arranging ties he’d hand-washed in the bathroom on the hanging drying rack next to the stacked machines. What he’s certainly _not_ expecting is to find Eliot sitting in his shirt sleeves and trousers on what looks like the entire contents of their bed and a quarter their closet, the paper screen pushed away towards the laundry machines, almost entirely hiding them from view. 

“What’s this?” Quentin asks, fondness pushing at the base of his throat. He knows what it _looks_ like, it _looks like_ —

“I, uh— made a nest?” Eliot offers, a bit hesitant, looking around at the piled up bedding like now he’s questioning it himself. It’s so fucking endearing, because _alphas don’t nest_ , except—

Quentin can picture it, his sweet dumb alpha, crawling around their den with blankets and pillows, trying to approximate something he’s seen Quentin do on instinct dozens (hundreds) of times. It could not be more obvious he had _no idea_ what he was doing, though. There’s way too many pillows on one side and not enough on the other, leaving the nest only half-walled and structurally unsound. The blankets will come apart with even a _thought_ of vigorous rolling. There’s sweaters spread out over the pillows, like they’re going to be doing anyone any good up there, rather than tucked into the heart of the nest, spreading scent. It’s kind of a terrible nest.

It’s also maybe the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for Quentin. 

“You made this for me?” Quentin asks, soft, watching Eliot flush a little, over the open top of his collar. He smells— deeply pleased and a little embarrassed but mostly just— that undefinable wave of _protection_ and _safety_ he gets, when he’s looking at Quentin and thinking about keeping him. “Because I was having a bad day?”

“Well— yeah,” Eliot admits, a little sheepish, scratching at his beard. Quentin _loves_ that beard, loves how it makes Eliot look more grown up, more settled in himself. The way it catches and holds scent, like Eliot’s body hair does, makes him smell— _perfect_ ; Quentin’s not complaining about that either. “I know it’s probably not right, but.”

“I can fix it,” Quentin murmurs, enraptured, toeing off his shoes so he can step into the nest, drop down into Eliot’s lap. “It’s perfect.”

“Hi,” Eliot murmurs, rubbing their noses together in a soft greeting. God, he _smells incredible_ — Quentin tips his face down into the crook of Eliot’s neck, where the scent of spice and deep-caramelized plums and woodsmoke linger, like a stone-fruit cobbler cooked over an open fire. It makes Quentin’s _mouth wet_ , watering, rubbing his lips and nose over Eliot’s scent gland, up into his beard.

“You made a nest for me,” Quentin repeats, a little dumbstruck, as Eliot’s big sturdy hands come up to cradle the small of his back, _holding him_. 

“Yeah, honey bee,” Eliot agrees, teasing, the smile lighting up bright hazel eyes. Then, more serious: “I wanted to give you a safe place— I mean— you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” Quentin promises, and doesn’t say _you are my safe place_ because that’s a little corny, even for him. That doesn’t mean it’s not true though, or that Eliot can’t feel it, pulsing through their bond. Even sitting in Eliot’s lap, they’re barely of a height, and Quentin still has to tip his face up, just a very little bit, to kiss him. And _oh_ , it— he’d sort of had something of a ‘hello’ kiss in mind, but Eliot hums and lets go of Quentin’s waist to cup the back of his skull, clever tongue brushing out to lick along the seam of Quentin’s mouth and— He just _opens_ , unthinking, so he can let— _ah—_ Eliot’s tongue fuck gently into his mouth, suck on it until Eliot groans, pulling back long enough to start the whole thing over again. 

A couple long, slow sweet kisses later, Quentin’s— distracted, thoroughly, but—

“You want to fix the nest, don’t you?” Eliot asks, pulling back with a teasing light in his eye, and Quentin ducks his head.

“Kinda, yeah? It’s just— going to fall apart if I don’t fix— the structure’s not exactly—” A grin’s spreading, slowly, across Eliot’s face, and all Quentin can feel from him is amusement and affection, the rich happiness of his smell. 

“Go on then. I can take you tenderly against the blankets after.”

“Gee, you promise?” Quentin snarks back, and Eliot laughs. Smacking lightly at Quentin’s ass to get him up, Eliot tips sideways out of the nest to sit cross legged on the floor next to it, leaning back on his hands. His shirt is unbuttoned down to nearly the base of his sternum, and it’s— _distracting_ , god, how is it so damn distracting when Quentin sees him naked nearly every day. But Eliot catches him staring, raising an eyebrow and shifting a little, just enough that Quentin catches a flash of dusky pink nipple, and—

— flushes, turning back towards the nest. 

“I love watching you den,” Eliot murmurs, the low rumble of his alpha voice sending pleasant tingles up Quentin’s spine. Then he laughs, and his voice is clearer, lighter when he says: “ _God_ , that’s probably such a sexist thing of me to say.”

“I dunno,” Quentin shrugs, looking over at him as he rearranges pillows. “Is it some internalized bullshit that makes me like doing it?”

“I don’t think so,” Eliot admits, soft, quiet, a wave of contentment flooding out of him. “I think there’s a difference between listening to your instincts and internalizing what people tell you you’re supposed to be because of your biology.”

“So why do you like watching me, then?”

“Because you’re good at it,” Eliot admits, and Quentin— probably fucking blushes, god, sue him, he fucking _loves_ Eliot’s praise, could roll around in it like he wants to do his scent. “Because it obviously comforts you. Because it makes me feel— cared for, and loved, like you’re making space for me.”

 _God_ , and Eliot had decided to make Quentin a nest. “None of those are bad things,” he points out, voice tight with— so much feeling. Eliot just hums in response, leaning forward to— god, _god_ , kiss softly at the tender skin of Quentin’s neck over the edge of the nest. “Just get back in here, will you?”

Eliot does, tumbling into the nest with a laugh. Quentin’s blanket work is _much_ better than Eliot’s had been, thank you very much, thoroughly able to withstand the playful tussling. And god, Quentin just doesn’t have the energy or desire to play fight for long, happy to end up flat on his back with Eliot braced over him, pinning his wrists to the blankets by his head.

“Got you,” Eliot mumbles, thumbs rubbing at the scent glands on Quentin’s wrists, turning his whole spine to liquid. 

“Mmhm,” he hums in agreement, pushing up for a kiss, _oh_ , sweet and slow, fuck. He’s breathing a little hard when Eliot pulls back, thoroughly kissed. “What are you going to do with me?”

“Darling, whatever you want me too,” Eliot sighs back, fond and a little teasing, releasing one of Quentin’s wrists to slide his fingers through Quentin’s bangs, pet them back off his head. “What can I give you, hm? Want me to suck you off? Eat you out?”

Shivers of arousal chase through Quentin’s body, making him shift a little under the weight of Eliot’s bulk, pinning him. God, Eliot’s _mouth_ , the scratch of his beard on the tender insides of his thighs, along the cleft of his ass, Quentin _always_ wants that. The thought of it is enough to make a pulse of heat shoot down between his legs, make him want to clamp them shut— or _spread them open_. But— “It’s kind of dumb but I don’t want you that far away,” he admits, turning his head to look at Eliot’s wrist instead of his beautiful, dear face. “Maybe you can just like— fingers? And like. Kiss me?”

“Oh, I think I can do that,” Eliot agrees, soft, trailing his nose down across Quentin’s cheek, down over the edge of his jaw to— _fuck—_ inhale deeply, obviously scenting him. It makes Quentin _whine_ , a little, hips shifting restlessly. “Why are we still wearing clothes?”

“I genuinely have _no idea_ ,” Quentin giggles, biting off another whine when Eliot lets go of him, rolling away to start taking off his shirt. It’s something Quentin’s seen literally hundreds of times, at this point, in all kinds of contexts. Sexual ones, yes, but also practical— getting undressed for bed, swimming, rushing around in the morning because he put on the wrong shirt and he’s going to be late for work and _PR emergencies don’t just resolve themselves, Quentin—_

He knows exactly what Eliot’s boney shoulders look like shrugging out of his shirt, and he still wants to kiss them away. Lick across his collarbones, run his hands down the planes of Eliot’s arms, across the gentle definition of his biceps, his strong forearms. So he does.

“Put your fingers in me,” Quentin murmurs, against Eliot’s ear, feeling a spike of Eliot’s own arousal as Quentin tangles said fingers with his own. “I love your hands, god. Please, El?”

“ _Fuck—_ I’m working on it,” Eliot tosses back, turning in for another long, deep, sucking kiss, before, “Clothes, Q, get naked.” And well, why would Quentin want to argue with that?

There’s lube in here, because Eliot still likes getting fucked during ruts and as much as they both get hot for Quentin using his own slick to open Eliot up, it just dries out too fast. So there’s good silicone lube in the box that also holds a couple anal plugs and the harness for Quentin’s strap-on knot, which Quentin had burried under some pillows. Eliot digs it out now, tossing the tube of lube towards Quentin with an eyebrow wiggle.

“I’ll get wet,” Quentin reminds him, because, well— just because he’s not in heat right now doesn’t mean he’s ever had any problem taking every inch of what Eliot has to give him.

“I’m impatient,” Eliot lies blatantly, like he’s not going to draw this out _agonizingly_ slowly, like he’s ever, ever _once,_ put so much as a finger in Quentin before he was so slick and open he couldn’t think. Hovering over Quentin, Eliot reaches out, thumbs brushing over the scent glands at the sides of Quentin’s throat, over the imprints of his own teeth. It makes Quentin feel _melted_ , down to his toes, and yeah, they’re really not going to need the lube, but if it makes Eliot feel better.

Eliot’s hands are strong and slender and dexterous, just like the rest of him. Quentin takes the left one in his own, as Eliot settles next to him in the nest. Gently, he slides his thumb along the edge of one of Eliot’s fingers, up over the carefully maintained cuticles, neatly trimmed nails. Next to Eliot’s, Quentin’s fingers look stocky and square, jerky where Eliot’s all grace. Smiling, he leans in to kiss Eliot’s knuckles, the palm of his hand, draws his mouth down to the scent gland at Eliot’s wrist. Kissing there always makes Eliot gasp— _yes_ , like that— and leaves Eliot’s scent smeared all over Quentin’s mouth, which, frankly, makes them both—

 _— wild_.

“Thought you were impatient,” Quentin goads, just to— _ha, yeah—_ make Eliot growl, playful, and lean in to nip at Quentin’s throat. “If you don’t— _oh_ – hurry up, I’m gonna— _fuck El_ — gonna do it myself.”

“Oh, baby, that’s hardly a threat,” Eliot murmurs, low against Quentin’s ear, his lovely, lovely hand petting down Quentin’s trembling belly, stopping long enough to tug fondly on Quentin’s cock, once, twice, again. “You think I wouldn’t want to lay back and watch you stuff yourself with your own fingers?”

“Would rather have— _El_!” Quentin shouts, gapping, back arching as Eliot starts to pet two of the tips of his fingers down around Quentin’s hole. “Fuck, give it to me, please.”

“So wet,” Eliot purs, and, well, fuck, he’s not _wrong_ , is he? There’s already enough slick between Quentin’s cheeks for Eliot’s fingers to glide easily over the sensitive nerves, enough that he can easily slip just the tip of his middle finger inside, rubbing along the rim with the other two. “This what you want, sweetheart?”

“I _want_ ,” Quentin starts, gasping, gripping at Eliot’s shoulder with one hand, the blankets with the other, “—I _want_ you to _fuck me_.” 

It makes Eliot laugh, but he also sinks his finger in, _deep_. Quentin lets himself get lost in it, a little, the feeling of being on his back with his alpha braced on his elbow at his side, the feeling of Eliot’s body, the presence of him. Eyes fluttering shut, Quentin can breathe deep and just concentrate on the stretch and slide of Eliot’s fingers, shiver a little when Eliot starts kissing across his chest as he shifts, presumably to get a better angle. Two fingers in and he’s pressing kisses to Quentin’s belly, fingers grinding— _oh—_ right up inside, rubbing hot and hard over and over against the swell of Quentin’s prostate, sending shivery-hot pulses of pleasure through his whole body.

And fuck, it’s so good, the stretch of it, as a third finger slides in, makes Quentin gasp, reach out to tangle his fingers in Eliot’s tumble of dark brown curls, hold on.

“Good?” Eliot asks, soft, against Quentin’s stomach, three clever fingers working in him deep and steady.

“Can’t you— _ah!_ Can’t you feel it?”

Eliot hums a little, and when Quentin looks down at him, he’s grinning, mischievous. “Still wanna hear it though.”

“Fuck, of course it feels good, you ass,” Quentin grumbles, _feeling_ Eliot’s amusement, as surely as he feels the laughter in Eliot’s breath on his skin. “It’s so good, baby, please— more, I want more.”

Eliot gives him more, a long, _aching stretch_ , sucking bruises on the tender skin of Quentin’s belly while he carefully fits his fingers inside. It’s so fucking— _intense_ , deep stretches are always intense, but Quentin’s fucking _ready_ , his body’s _aching_ for it. His fucking slick must be running down Eliot’s wrist, Jesus, oh _Jesus_. Eliot’s knuckles pass over his prostate with every careful thrust, sending bright, pulsing hot waves of pleasure out through Quentin’s body, making his cock drip, his nipples hard, making him arch and swear and hold on tight. 

“More,” Quentin pants, baring back on Eliot’s hand, chasing the feeling.

“Baby, that’s four fingers,” Eliot murmurs, breath brushing out across the bite-sensitive skin of Quentin’s belly. “‘More’ is my whole hand.”

“ _God_ , give it to me,” Quentin moans, biting his lip and _arching_. He wants it, god, when _doesn’t_ he want it, Eliot’s knot, his _whole fucking hand_ , deep inside. 

“Okay,” Eliot agrees, petting his right hand over Quentin’s belly and— 

_“No, please, please El,” —_ starting to draw away.

“I can’t get my wrist at the right angle like this,” Eliot says patiently, his voice that low rumble that melts Quentin’s brain out his ears. “Can you get up on your knees for me, baby? I know you know how to present well.”

“Yeah, I will, I can, just–” then he _whines_ , embarrassingly, as Eliot’s fingers slide free. God, it leaves him feeling _empty_ , and he hates it, but— Eliot smacks the side of his asscheek, playful and grinning, and Quentin scrambles up to flip over, doing the best he can not to kick Eliot in the groin as he gets settled on his knees, sinking easily into the presentation posture, ass in the air and head cradled on his own arms. 

“There you go,” Eliot murmurs, and— “ _Fuck_ , Q _,_ ” sinks four fingers back inside.

“C’mon,” Quentin slurs, wiggling back a little to push Eliot’s fingers deeper in. “I can take it.”

“You,” Eliot starts, and stops to _bite_ , shivers of pleasure racing up Quentin’s spine at Eliot’s teeth in his skin. “— are not in heat right now. You need to let me work you up to it.”

“I am worked up,” Quentin protests, wiggling a little, hoping that— _yes_ — Eliot palm lands open with a loud crack on Quentin’s ass, god. It’s louder than it actually feels, but he moans anyway, wriggling on Eliot’s fingers.

“You’re such a brat,” Eliot says fondly, rubbing his palm over the barely tingling skin of Quentin’s ass cheek. His thumb is brushing, exploratory, over the skin on Quentin’s rim, a tickling sensation that makes him want to shift back and ride on it. “Inhale for me,” Eliot coaxes, rubbing his free hand across Quentin’s belly and Quentin does, on instinct, following where Eliot leads. “Now exhale and bare down.”

It’s a long, aching stretch. Different from taking a knot, which swells up inside. Different even than taking Alice’s fist, or Arielle’s. Eliot’s hand at the widest point feels almost impossibly huge, the span at the bone of his thumb stretching the rim of Quentin’s hole almost to the point of pain. _Almost_. And then it’s over, it's through, and Eliot’s hand is curling into a fist inside him. His knuckles grinding right on Quentin’s prostate, and Quentin’s _so fucking full_ — sobbing out helplessly, reaching out to grip the blankets of the nest as he locks down inside on the span of Eliot’s wrist.

“You did so well,” Eliot praises, softly, free hand sliding down to grip Quentin’s slippery, dripping cock, grinding his knucks up inside until Quentin— _can’t breathe_ , it feels so good. “Do you think you can come like this?”

“Yeah—” Quentin moans, and god, it sounds so breathless and needy, an distinctly omega sound that makes his face burn and— makes Eliot rumble in response, working both hands in tandem until Quentin’s on edge, nearly shaking. 

“Come, darling,” Eliot murmurs, working the head of Quentin’s cock with his thumb until he does, a sharp snap-expand of pleasure that steals his breath and quiets his brain, leaves him boneless and relaxed everywhere except where he’s locked around Eliot’s wrist. “There you go, baby, that’s it.”

Quentin can only moan weakly in response, his whole body tingling all over. All he can do is let Eliot keep him balanced on his knees, rubbing his back and sides until he starts to relax enough that Eliot can start to coax his hand out. All he can do is let Eliot help him up to sit back on his shins, lean back into the broad span of Eliot's body and be _held_ , kept, safe and kissed, his head tipped back on Eliot’s shoulder until the trembling stops.

“Hi,” Quentin murmurs, eventually, as the kisses drop off into nuzzling, Eliot’s nose and mouth dragging all over Quentin’s nose and mouth, beard-scratchy and adored. 

“Hello,” Eliot agrees, shifting a little, and suddenly Quentin can’t help but be aware of the line of Eliot’s cock pressed against his asscheek, of the fact that Eliot just weathered the bond-sympathy feeling of Quentin’s orgasm but hasn’t actually been touched himself. 

And that— that just won’t do.

One of the _best_ things about a nest, as opposed to, say, the bed they usually fuck on, is the 360-degrees of soft comfortable surface. So Quentin can turn around and push, half-tackle really, Eliot back onto his back in the nest, reveling in his laughter as he sprawls backwards. And fuck— he’s gorgeous, Eliot’s _unfairly gorgeous_ , flat on his back in the nest with his dark curls splayed out against bedding, beard and chest hair and the hair between his legs all standing out in sharp contrast to his pale skin. And then it’s all but impossible, isn’t it, not to stare at the way his cock lays, thick and proud, almost all the way up to his navel, too heavy even to stand up on it’s own, hard shaft and wet pink head and the loose knot at the base, just starting to really get going. 

Giving in to desire, Quentin hunches over to kiss at the pucker of long-healed scar tissue maring the side of Eliot’s stomach, then drags his face down to rub his nose and cheek against the crook of Eliot’s thigh, breathing him in— _god_. Quentin just came, but _that scent_ , fuck, it makes him feel _slick_ all over again, overly aware of how open the achey muscles between his legs are, were Eliot’s _whole hand_ was just— all the way inside him. It makes him fucking— _keen_ a little, needy omega sound, turning his face to lick out against the base of Eliot’s dick, tongue darting out against the loose skin where his knot inflates. 

“ _Fuck_ , _Q_ ,” Eliot gasps, hips _flexing_ against Quentin’s cheek, which is just— fucking, ridiculously hot, somehow. 

Grinning, Quentin pushes up to perch on Eliot’s thighs, loving the way it makes him feel _spread_ , fuck, he’s gonna _leak_ all over both of him, isn’t he? It’d be so easy to just— slide that big dick inside, let gravity and the space left behind by Eliot’s fist do most of the work for him. He wants to _touch_ , to, to, to— _give_ , somehow. Make Eliot feel as special and safe and loved as Quentin does. Cupping his hands around the sides of Eliot’s neck, he leans forward for a kiss, hot and filthy and deep, Eliot’s beard scratching against his face. It makes him giggle, which makes Eliot grin in response. Quentin sits back, dragging his palms down from Eliot’s neck, across his chest, feeling him up shamelessly with a grin on his face. Eliot arches his back dutifully, pushing his chest up into Quentin’s hands, the scratch of his chest hair and the points of his nipples dragging against Quentin’s palms. 

“S’nice,” Eliot murmurs, eyes fluttering closed, and Quentin can feel it through the bond, the sparkle of pleasure, the way Eliot revels in being appreciated. Quentin doesn’t really like being looked at, himself, generally prefers to think of his body as a thing that carries his brain around and not much more than that. But Eliot— Eliot _loves_ to be admired, to be touched, to be seen and wanted.

And Quentin likes doing it.

He likes doing all the things for Eliot that no one else gets to do. 

Knowing what he wants, suddenly, Quentin leans forward for another kiss, and another, drawing in lungfuls of Eliot’s rich alpha scent before he asks, against Eliot’s mouth, “Can I fuck you? Can I give you that? Is it okay?”

“Baby,” Eliot purrs, deep alpha resonance that makes Quentin _weak_ , like Eliot’s hands sliding down his back makes him weak, the way Eliot pushes up against him makes him _melt_ — “It’s more than okay.”

“Do you want a knot?” Quentin asks, and then gets— distracted, by kissing at Eliot’s mouth.

“Don’t want to fuck with the harness,” Eliot admits, once Quentin pulls back to catch his breath. Eliot’s breathing hard too, and that’s honestly pretty gratifying, as Eliot pushes up onto his elbows, nuzzles their faces together again. “I just want you, darling.”

It takes longer, opening Eliot up, than it had for Quentin. Of course it does, it always does, but— now, he can’t complain. Never can really, the way it feels like an act of will for Eliot to let him inside, how he gets to kiss and kiss and kiss Eliot through opening up for the stretch. It’s not like there’s a lot to take, anyway, not without the strap-on, if all Eliot’s taking is Quentin’s slim cock. But it takes long enough for Quentin to start to get hard again, and he’s— _god—_ really wet inside but—

“Can I have a plug?” he gasps, shivering, against Eliot’s mouth, three fingers deep inside him while Eliot rides back on them. “Can I— while I fuck you?”

“ _Fuck_ , baby,” Eliot gasps, then nods, kissing against Quentin’s mouth as his fingers slip free. “Yeah, of course you can. Go pick one, and I’ll help you get it in, okay? Then you can give me your dick without feeling empty.”

It makes Quentin _shiver_ , and flush, and— he’d be embarrassed, honestly, except Eliot’s arms are wrapping around him, hugging him, kissing him again and it’s just— just them, together, in every way they can be. “I love you,” he murmurs against Eliot’s mouth, feels an answering surge of affection in return. 

He doesn’t really _want_ to pull away, to go poke through the toy box, but Eliot just follows him, wrapping his arms around Quentin’s torso and tucking his chin over Quentin’s shoulder. He feels— _big_ , and solid, and Quentin leans back into his arms, head tipping to the side on instinct, so Eliot can press a kiss to the bite mark on his throat. 

There’s a couple plugs in the box, and he lingers over them, fingers trailing across one so big it’s hard to take if he hasn’t been knotted already. The last time they’d used _that_ one had been during his heat, after Eliot had come in him and he’d begged— _keep it in, keep it in, I wanna be full, El, please, don’t let it come out_ — He shivers, a little, as Eliot’s lips press against his neck, and he knows Eliot’s thinking of it too. One of Eliot’s hands passes down to rub over his belly, soft, and Quentin— smiles, tips his face back to rub against Eliot’s cheek. _Soon_ , he thinks, next time his birth control implant runs out, they’re _ready_. He feels the answering wash of contentment from Eliot through the bond, a little sharp nip of teeth on his neck. 

But no, he’s probably a little too sore to take that one right now, and besides, that’s not the point anyway. Instead he reaches for another one, slender, smaller even than Eliot’s dick, but— wickedly curved at the tip, which he knows from experience gets him _just right_ when he’s fucking his cock deep into Eliot’s body.

“ _Mmm_ , you’re gonna come so hard,” Eliot murmurs, sultry, and the hand petting Quentin’s stomach slides down to— _ah_ — grip his cock. 

“That’s the idea,” he agrees, then passes the toy back to Eliot. 

Eliot ends up bracing the plug on his thigh, letting Quentin slide down onto it like he’d been imagining doing with Eliot’s cock. And _oh_ — it feels so good, to brace his hands on Eliot’s broad shoulders and lean back into the hand Eliot’s got placed on his lower back, supportive, and just _take it_. The flare of the plug makes Quentin feel hot all over, the way it stretches him as he settles onto it, lets him lock around the base of it.

“You’re so beautiful,” Eliot breathes, and Quentin hadn’t even realized he’d let his eyes fall shut to concentrate on the feeling until he’s blinking them back open again to look at his mate.

“You’re— _ah_ — biased,” he stutters out in response, as the wicked tip of the plug settles right against the swell of his prostate, overly sensitive from how wound up he is, having come once already and hard again. 

“Mmm, maybe,” Eliot admits, reaching up to brush his thumb against the bite mark on Quentin’s neck. “I thought you were beautiful before you were mine, though.” Quentin whimpers, a little, and Eliot grins in response. Hums, soft, as he leans in for a kiss: “ _Mine_. Oh baby, you’re so mine. Gonna give me that pretty dick, sweet thing?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, sliding his hands down from Eliot’s shoulders to push, gently, at his chest, until he starts to lean back, sprawling out in the nest, arms out wide, one elbow crooked to leave his hand loose up by his head. “I’m going to take care of you,” he promises, leaning down to bite, softly, at the tender skin on the inside of Eliot’s arm over the bicep, as he laces their fingers together. 

He can feel how _overwhelmed_ that idea makes Eliot, and he’s so— he’s so fucking _proud_ , of his sweet, brave, silly alpha, for not running away from it. For, instead, pulling Quentin to him by a hand on the back of his head and saying, “I know you will,” as his scent and his heart— tied to Quentin’s through their bond— said ‘ _I love you too_.’

Fumbling for the abandoned lube bottle, Quentin clumsily smears his own cock until he’s slick and sliding through his own fist. Reaching down, he checks the slick skin of Eliot’s hole, but he’s still loose enough for Quentin to easily slide three fingers inside, and. Well, Eliot’s body might not be made for this in exactly the same way that Quentin’s is, but Quentin’s hardly the biggest thing Eliot’s ever taken.

“‘m ready, baby,” Eliot sighs, hips arching a little as Quentin’s fingers move inside him. And yeah, he definitely seems to be, so Quentin pulls back, fumbling to get his hand on his own cock and guide the tip until it’s tucked up behind Eliot’s balls. 

“Wanna do this on my knees,” he breathes, holding his breath as he starts to— fuck, _fuck, fuckfuck—_ sink in, to the tight clutching heat of Eliot’s body. “Is that okay? El, can I— can I give it to you like that?”

“Yes,” Eliot groans out, drawing the word into a long hiss. Quentin can feel sweat prickling along his own back as he hitches Eliot’s hips up so his ass is braced on Quentin’s thighs, and Quentin can _fuck him_ , sharp and deep with every thrust. Smaller movements that grip the plug inside Quentin and _grind it_ right against where he’s swollen and sensitive.

“ _God,_ Eliot _,”_ he gasps, looking down at his alpha, spread out bellow him, that big dick all on display, leaking at the tip, red flushing the head and around the base where— _fuck_ — his half-blown knot sits.

Like this, Quentin can _watch_ , fuck, he can _watch_ Eliot’s knot grow. Hips working in tight little circles, up into Eliot’s body and back down onto the plug, Quentin stares, just— _fascinated_ , at the swell of the knot. _I take that inside me_ , he thinks, stunned dazed, with a shiver of arousal that makes Eliot moan in sympathy.

“What are you thinking?” Eliot gasps, reaching up to catch Quentin’s elbow. “What are you thinking about that’s turning you on?”

“Your— _fuck_ — your fucking _knot_ , El” Quentin gasps, god, he’s so sensitive, _everywhere_ — the fucking _air_ on his nipples is making them tight and prickly. The words make Eliot’s dick twitch, which Quentin can _see_ , because he’s still watching it. Watching, as Eliot’s big, broad hand slides down his own stomach to fondle the inflating knot, rub at it, make himself _moan_ — “It’s so fucking big, I— fuck, I love it.”

“Yeah, you do,” Eliot sighs, pushing back into Quentin’s tight little thrusts. “God, baby, come feel how hard you make me.”

Fumbling, Quentin lets go of Eliot’s hip, reaching out so Eliot can catch his hand, curl it around the base of his cock tight. And fuck, he’s never tired of this, how it feels in his palm, big and thick and hotter, somehow, than the rest of Eliot’s cock. He rubs and massages the swell of the knot, making Eliot groan and arch sharply, making him clench down hard on Quentin’s cock inside him.

“You’re close,” he mutters, sure, because he can _feel_ it through the bond, the swell of Eliot’s pleasure. “Wanna make you come, sweetheart.” 

“ _Squeeze_ ,” Eliot begs, sobbing, and Quentin does, squeezes down on Eliot’s knot as hard as he can from this angle, watching, enraptured, the way Eliot’s head tips back, blissful, mouth falling wide open on a moan as he comes. And comes.

 _And comes_. 

Ripples of long drawn out pleasure spread through Quentin, pooling down between his legs. God, he’s gotta be so wet, it’s almost a miracle the plug hasn’t slid right out of him. But it’s still there, and he can— _grind_ on it, right there, feeling the waves of Eliot’s pleasure has his _flushed thick cock_ leaks come out all over himself, god, _so much_ , that big beautiful knot— Quentin gasps, riding down on the plug inside him, riding the wave of Eliot’s orgasm, fucking a handful of tiny tight thrusts into Eliot’s body before he’s coming too, spilling into the welcoming heat of Eliot’s body.

Eliot catches him, when he starts to collapse. There’s no knot tying them together, and Eliot’s knot outside of a heat or rut won’t last _too_ long, but Quentin makes sure to keep his hand on it anyway, as they curl together on the soft squishy nest. 

“You okay?” He asks, nuzzling his face in against Eliot’s, rubbing his mouth against Eliot’s beard. 

“ _God_ , I’m great,” Eliot sighs out, slow blinks of his warm hazel eyes when Quentin pulls back enough to see him. Then Eliot’s reaching out, moving them onto their sides and nudging Quentin around so his hand isn’t jammed down between them, shifting instead so his thigh is caught between Eliot’s legs, pushing his cock up against his own stomach, putting pressure on the knot.

“That enough?” Quentin asks, and watches Eliot smile at him.

“Yeah, it’s enough. It’s different, not coming inside... I’m good, honey bee.”

“Okay,” Quentin breathes, feeling stripped tender and weirdly vulnerable, wriggling in close. It doesn’t take much maneuvering to work one of the blankets of the nest free, to bring up over to cover them. “S’a good nest,” he mutters, sleepily, rubbing his nose into the point of Eliot’s jaw. They're _drenched_ in each other’s scent now, of course they are, and it makes something deeply satisfied settle in Quentin’s gut.

“Don’t you fall asleep on me,” Eliot warns, deeply affectionate alpha rumble. “I need to feed you. And you still have a plug in your ass.”

“Mmm,” Quentin hums in agreement, clenching down happily on the toy. It’ll start to get uncomfortable after a while, but right now his body’s as content to lock on the toy as it would be the knot pressed against his thigh. “‘m tired, though. Just for a minute?”

“Well, maybe, for a minute,” Eliot sighs, put upon, vibrations of his voice buzzing against Quentin’s lips and nose as he nuzzles down into the crook of Eliot’s neck. Everything smells exactly right, like plums and honey and woodsmoke and wax and spices, with Eliot’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, with Eliot’s sturdy torso against his own. 

Content, Quentin dozes. 

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check me out on [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) and [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


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